Under My Skin, part 2

[solafiamma]

Parft 1 is here.

 

Under My Skin, 2

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Lance was a merciless flirt. He was also stubborn as shit, which Chris already knew and was mostly impressed by, but this was a whole different story. Any other person with a shred of self-respect would have just let it go and moved on, but Lance seemed to interpret rejection as a declaration of war. Or love. Whatever. The battle lines were drawn, and however fucked up things had been before, they now became infinitely more complicated.

Chris never knew what to expect or when to expect it. Days, weeks would pass and Lance wouldn’t do so much as wink at him over his shoulder, or pinch his ass, or ask him if he’d changed his mind yet. Figuring the whole crush thing had run its course, Chris would start to let his guard down, and things would gradually ease back to normal, where at least eighty percent of the time Lance was just one of the guys. 

And then, one day they’d be wrestling, and he’d have Lance pinned to the floor with a knee in his back and a handful of hair in his fist, and instead of bucking him off or rolling to one side, Lance would just go still and boneless beneath him, and make a soft moaning sound that could maybe, possibly be taken for pain if it wasn’t so clearly pleasure. Chris would be off him in a flash and across the room, leaving Lance giggling to himself on the floor.

It was a sneaky, underhanded stealth-bomber-y approach to flirting, rarely overt enough that Chris could retaliate with an explicit smack down.

For the first few months, the guys didn’t notice anything amiss because Lance tended to pull his stunts when he and Chris were alone. As the weeks passed, though, and Chris finally clued in to the safety in numbers strategy, Lance grew bolder. He’d wait until the others were distracted, attack, and then look all bewildered and innocent when Chris started sputtering in shock or yelling at him. They’d all be gathered in Joey’s room to watch porn while the moms were out shopping, for example, and when the on-screen action started heating up, Lance would snuggle up close and whisper in Chris’ ear, “I’d totally do that to you, if you wanted me to.”

Or Chris and Lance would be sitting next to one another on the bus, on the way to yet one more town they’d never see more of than a stage, a dressing room and a cheap hotel room. They’d be talking to the other guys, yelling bad jokes up and down the bus, laughing, and suddenly out of the blue Lance would lean over and lick Chris on the neck, a quick, electric flick of a tongue that might just as well have been applied directly to his dick, its effect was so immediate. The next second, Lance would be tugging at Joey’s hair and teasing him about the girl he’d dated the night before.

Eventually, of course, it had to come out. There was just no way to keep that kind of secret for any length of time, not living in one another’s pockets as they did. 

It happened one rainy afternoon when they were hanging out in a hotel lobby, waiting for a reporter to show up, even though she wasn’t due for another hour. None of them could face the prospect of waiting in the tiny, bleak, airless rooms Lou had booked, and the rain was so grey and heavy, they didn’t feel like braving the street, either. Joey was writing postcards, Lance was absorbed in a chemistry textbook and Chris had been trying unsuccessfully for the last half hour to interest Justin and a snoozing JC in heading upstairs for a quick game of basketball in the hallway.

“Come on, you guys! I’m bored. I’m bored! I’m so fucking bored I’m gonna start chewing the carpets. .” A pen struck him in the side of the head. “Hey, cut that out!”

He turned to glare at Lance, who had abandoned his textbook and was now sprawled back in his armchair, one leg draped elegantly over the side, his hand resting suggestively over his crotch. Lance smiled at him. “You can play withme, Chris,” he said sweetly.

“Go to hell, Bass,” Chris snapped. “I don’t fucking want to play with you. How many god damned times do you need to be told.”

“Hey, whoa!” Joey looked up from his postcard. “Why are you being such a shit to Lance?”

Chris gaped at him in outrage. “Me? Me? I’m not the shit in this equation. Lance is the shit And not just any random shit. He’s the most irritating, devious, cheating, cock teasing-ish Mata Hari-wannabe shit in western Europe, so I’d take it as a personal kindness if you’d just fuck the hell off and leave me alone, Fatone..”

“What are you talking about?”

“He means,” Lance said, coming over to sit on the arm of Chris’ chair, “that I’m trying to seduce him. And you,” he poked Chris in the stomach. “For your information, it’s only called cock teasing if the cock teaser isn’t willing to put out.Which, also for your information, just in case I haven’t made myself clear, I am.”

There was a collective gasp from Joey, JC and Justin, and followed by an extended silence as they all stared, first at Lance, then at Chris, then back at Lance and then back to Chris. It was like they’d morphed into a three-headed idiot, Chris thought irritably.

“Are you?” asked JC. “Trying to seduce him, I mean?” And all three heads spun back to Lance.

“Yup.”

“But, like a joke, right?” Justin said, nodding his head in an encouraging, very funny but joke’s over now kind of way.

“No.”

JC broke rank with the three headed beast and turned to glare in Chris’ direction. “Chris, god, if you’ve touched him--“

“What the fuck? Of course I haven’t touched him, assbrain! What kind of pervert do you think I am? Jesus H.Hamheaded Christ!”

Lance draped an arm around Chris’s shoulder and nuzzled his neck. “Oh, hush. Chris just has old fashioned courtship notions, JC. He wants to wait until we’re married.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Knock it off!” Chris wrenched himself away and out of the chair, deciding that a stroll in the rainstorm was looking more attractive by the second. Unfortunately there was a foot in his way, which there wouldn’t have been if Lance could just keep his freaking distance for once in his life, and instead of ending up on the safety of the sidewalk, Chris found himself in a petulant heap on the floor, swearing vigorously to the accompaniment of Lance and Justin’s guffaws. When JC offered him a hand up, he slapped it away and growled at him. 

Joey was looking down at him, as serious as Chris had ever seen him. It made him feel guilty, and that made him feel almost cranky enough to take a bite out of Joey’s ankle. Which he totally would have if Joey’d been like a foot and a half closer. 

“What’s going on, Lance?” Joey asked.

“Nothing. Nothing’s going on. He says I’m too young.”

“He’s right.”

Lance opened his mouth, then shut it again abruptly. In those few seconds, Chris could see him clearly, the uncertain kid lurking underneath the layers of bravado and self-assurance. He could see him in the sudden droop of Lance’s shoulder’s as he digested Joey’s words, in the sharp look of hurt that flashed across his face and was as quickly smothered. Squeezing his eyes shut, Chris sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever power in the universe had given him the good sense not to let things get any farther this. Lance might think he knew what he wanted, but Lance was a kid. He didn’t know shit. 

“No, he’s not.” Justin’s voice cut through his relief.

“What?”

“He’s not too young. That’s just whack, man.”

“Keep out of this, Justin.”

“Why should 1? Joey isn’t keeping out of it. JC isn’t keeping out of it. I’m entitled to my opinion. And I think it’s cool that Lance wants to, you know--“

“Suck my dick? You think that’s cool, you little freak?”

“Shhhh!” hissed JC frantically. “People are going to hear.”

“Um. Not the specifics, maybe. But it’s cool that he likes you. It is. His age shouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter to me, not if I really liked someone. And you know what? You guys are just being sexist, yo. If I wanted to go out with an older woman, you wouldn’t think that was so awful.”

“If she was as old as I am, I’d have her arrested.”

“Oh, bullshit. You would not. Would you? You wouldn’t really, right?”

“If he didn’t, I would,” JC said. “Or Joey would. Or your mom, Justin. What? Don’t give me that face, man. It’s what we do. We look out for you guys, try to keep you away from all that skanky shit.”

“And we’re just so grateful,” Lance said, standing up and smoothing his pants. “But, you know, in this particular case, it isn’t necessary. I mean, in the first place, Chris might be an ass ninety-eight percent of the time, but he hardly falls into the category of “skanky shit,” and in the second place, I’m sorry, guys, but this just isn’t a group thing. This is a me and Chris thing. Y’all can have your opinions till the cows come home, but it’s Chris’ decision and my decision, and you can tell me anything you like about how to dance, and what to say to reporters, and how to handle Lou, and what to wear and how to fake a convincing smile, and how to stay awake at those god awful sponsor dinners, but not this. This is where you back up and back off.”

He stood there for a few minutes, glaring at Joey and JC, hands fisted at his sides as though he barely hold himself back from challenging them to put up their dukes. When neither of them responded, he relaxed slightly, and walked over to squat by Joey’s chair. “We’re okay, right, Joe? You’re not mad?”

“No, doofus. I’m not mad. But I think--“

“So, you’re not going to interfere?” 

Joey shrugged, and Chris could see him giving up, which was just typical. The stupid fucktard couldn’t say no to Lance to save his life. “Whatever. Do what you want. You will anyway.” 

“Oh, fucking terrific, Fatone. I don’t get a say in this?”

Lance grinned at him. “Of course you get a say, Chris. Whenever you’re ready to say yes, just let me know.” With that, he rose and headed for the elevator. Chris tried to follow him, but only made it halfway across the lobby before Joey grabbed his arm and swung him back onto the couch.

“You know you can’t sleep with him, don’t you?”

“I know that if you ask me that question one more fucking time, Justin and I are going to leave the band and go on the road as the new Sonny and Cher. Shit. You know me better than that, Fatone, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’d be Cher, right?” asked Justin. “Sonny was that short little ugly dude, wasn’t he? I’m not sayin’ you’re ugly, man, but if you were any shorter we could use you as a doorstop. Hey, don’t hit me, I’m a valuable commodity.”

And that was that. From that afternoon on, Chris was on his own. Now that everything was out in the open, Lance dispensed with subtlety and subterfuge altogether, flirting blatantly with Chris whenever the five of them were alone -- and sometimes when they weren’t. At first the other guys ignored it or pretended not to notice, but gradually they came to treat the whole thing as a big joke. When Lance goosed Chris during rehearsals or dropped his towel repeatedly so he could bend down and wave his ass in Chris’ direction, they found it hilarious. They’d egg him on, and Chris was pretty sure they fed him ideas on the sly. 

The strange thing was, after a few weeks, it started to feel normal. Lance flirting with Chris became as a much a part of the group’s internal identity as Joey’s obsession with Superman, or Justin’s paranoia about germs. It was something they could count on, like JC falling asleep the moment he hit a flat surface, and if a few days went by without Lance putting the moves on Chris, they’d all start getting little twitchy, like they did when Chris was calm for any length of time.  

Lance never got upset or angry when Chris turned him down. It didn’t seem to bother him a bit. Eventually, Chris decided maybe that was the point, maybe this wasn’t just a game to the guys, maybe it was a game to Lance, too -- one he had no real intention of winning. That was just fine with Chris. He had no problem with games. He liked playing games. And this game was actually kind of fun. 

A few nights after Lance’s eighteenth birthday, Joey, Lance and Chris were downing schnapps shooters at a little bar around the corner from their current hotel. It was a dimly lit, grubby grey hole of a place, frequented by grubby grey men of indeterminate age who slouched alone or in silent groups, gazing into their drinks and nodding solemnly to the Doris Day tunes that blared from the speakers in an endless loop. They’d been there for a couple of hours (through at least four re-plays of Que Sera Sera, the last three of which they’d sung along to, much to the distress of the grubby grey bartender), talking about synthetic breasts, the relative merits of bratwurst versus burgers, who’d written “The Charge of the Light Brigade” and whether Lou always stuck them in rat bag hotels with no cable and even less hot water because he was cheap or because he was sadistic. The conversation had somehow segued into an argument about which of them had eaten the grossest thing. Joey having just topped Chris’s admission to tasting cat puke with a long, convoluted story involving a hamburger left on a windowsill, a hot summer weekend and maggots.

“Okay, Bass,” Chris said. “Don’t be shy. We know you southern boys are all about the inbreeding and the sheep fucking, so I’m guessing you’ve put some pretty revolting things in that mouth of yours from time to time. Do tell.”

Lance downed his schnapps in one swallow and smiled a little blurrily. “Mm. Um, let me think.” He rested his chin in palm and gazed at Chris for a few seconds. “First, though, you should probably know. I’m not gonna wait forever.”

“Huh?” 

“I said, I’m not going to wait forever. For you. I thought you should know.”

Chris eyed him cautiously, wondering if this was another set up, but Lance looked serious, even a little sad. Joey was looking a little sad too, and Chris wondered if they’d discussed this earlier. When he was in the washroom, maybe.

“Yeah. No, you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t wait.” He nudged Lance with his knee under the table, and then ruffled his hair. “I wouldn’t want you to.” 

Lance sighed and nudged him back. “Your loss, man.  Okay. Where were we? Oh, right. So, yeah, the grossest thing I ever ate was a rat tail sandwich. With candy sprinkles and hot sauce.”

Later, when Chris and Joey were getting ready for bed back in the hotel room they were sharing, Joey poked his head out of the bathroom, waved his toothbrush in the air and mumbled through a mouthful of foam, “You know. About Lance.”

“You know. About that disgusting habit you have of spitting toothpaste all over my bed.”

“Fuck off. You love it. I’m just saying. Well. He’s older now.”

“Uh huh. By, what, a whole six months?”

“No, but, really. He’s not a kid anymore, Chris. He’s eighteen. And anyway, he knows what he wants. He always knows what he wants. I just. Well, I just want you to know that we -- me and JC -- we kind of overreacted back then. And II guess, if you wanted to take things further, we wouldn’t mind. We wouldn’t think any less of you. It’s gonna be someone, might as well be you.”

“Oh, yeah. There’s a reason for getting in his pants. Look, man, I appreciate the blessing, but you’re talking out of your ass. He might be eighteen, but he’s still a kid, and frankly? I don’t need that kind of shit. I dated kids when I was a kid and as I recall, it pretty much sucked. There are just too many ways this could get fucked up. So, no. No.”

“Fucked up how?”

“You want a list?”

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Lance didn’t waste any time, Chris had to give him that. He started dating guys -- or a guy -- the next week, which seemed indecently soon, but whatever. His opportunities were somewhat limited as, quite apart from the professional need to be circumspect, Lance hadn’t come out to his mom yet and Diane still monitored his activities pretty closely, even if he was eighteen. Chris thought he would have moved to a different continent if Bev had poked her nose in his business as much as Diane did, but then he remembered that, actually, she had poked her nose in every bit as much whenever she’d had the opportunity. So maybe it was just a mom thing. Or a son thing. A mother and son thing. 

Whatever. Diane’s nosiness and the group’s schedule were a definite obstacle, but Lance managed to have at least two romances in Germany that Chris was aware of -- and he was pretty sure that was it, because between Joey, who dealt with secrets in much the same way as a philanthropist deals with a pocketful of cash, and Justin, who had developed an almost religious obsession with Lance’s sex life, there wasn’t much Chris didn’t know about Lance’s struggle to lose his virginity. More than his mother, anyway.

The first boyfriend, if he could actually be called that, was some graduate student from Australia who had taken a year off school (or “uni” as he called it) and surfing to bum around Europe and drink copious amounts of German beer. He was tall and tan, and had hair down to his waist, which would have been just fine, except that he kept it tied back with a blue velvet ribbon which no amount of taunting could convince him to lose.

It was hardly the big romance of the century. He and Lance had lunch twice, went to a show one night when the group wasn’t performing and, according to Justin, kissed exactly twice -- once in the elevator, and once outside the door to Lance’s room. Lance thought, Joey said, that the guy was probably a pretty good kisser, but was reserving judgement because he didn’t have much of a frame of reference to measure it against. Which meant, Chris figured, that the guy probably kissed like a trout. 

The whole thing lasted about ten days, and then surfer boy headed off to Lichtenstein to hook up with a bevy of relatives for some kind of family reunion, or his great uncle’s birthday, or maybe it was for the christening of his illegitimate cousin’s pet gerbil, because who really paid any attention to the social calendars of guys who festooned their heads with ribbons. Lance didn’t seem too bothered by his departure, so apparently Chris’ assessment of his kissing abilities hadn’t been too far off the mark.

The next guy was the son of a Saudi Arabian diplomat who spotted Lance at a party held by one of their European promoters and homed in on him like an ant to a picnic. Or, as Chris put it the next morning at breakfast, like a blowfly to a two-week old corpse. Hassan had studied at Harvard and the Sorbonne, and was an arrogant fuckhead, but he didn’t have any ribbons in his hair, so there was that. For three weeks, he came to their shows, hung out with them before and after, mooned around in the background during their interviews, and generally immersed himself in theboyband experience. It wasn’t as if he enjoyed their music, because he quite obviously didn’t, although he was smart enough not to say so. He did, though, have a definite appreciation for Lance’s ass and appeared willing to put up with a lot to further its acquaintance.

As Justin reported to Chris and JC, things hadn’t progressed much farther than some heavy duty necking and a couple of frantic groping sessions, when Hassan stormed off one night just before show time after a furious whispered argument with Lance.

“So, he dump you or what?” Chris asked later. They were unwinding in Joey and JC’s room, all of them sprawled on the floor drinking beer and eating stale almond pastries. “What’d you do? Fuck up on the pronunciation of baise mon cul? Accidentally use your fish knife to butter your roll? Tell him that Harvard boys are renowned for being lousy in the sack? Which, as a point of interest, has actually been totally true of every Harvard guy I’ve ever gotten naked with.”

“As a point of interest, that’s not even remotely interesting. And he didn’t dump me. I dumped him.” Lance pushed another chunk of pastry into his mouth and looked pleased with himself.

“Good,” said Joey. “He was an ass. Sorry, dude, but really. You can do better than that.”

“Of course he can do better. My grandma could do better.” Justin burped and nudged Lance with his toe. “So what happened, dude? Why’d you dump him?”  

“It doesn’t matter. Pass me another beer, ‘kay, C?”

Chris peered sideways at JC who was slumped next to him, head resting on Chris’ shoulder. “I think he’s asleep. He’d better be asleep, he’s fucking drooling all over my shirt. You want a beer, you’re gonna have to tell us why you gave pecker snot the boot.”

“Bite me.”

“Oh, come on, Lance. It can’t be that bad. Did he have bad breath? Did he pick his nose at the movies? Did he keep beating you at Scrabble? Did he want to spank you? Did he want to spank Joey? Did he find out you were an alien? Did he find out you wanted to use him as an incubator for alien babies who would suck the life force out of humankind and repopulate the world with freakish banana shaped life forms that have sex with lamp posts and only listen to the Captain and Tenille? Did--“

“Fuck! Would you shut up! He said your hair was stupid! There, are you happy now?”

“Um. Okay. You,” Chris said, throwing a bottle cap at Justin. “Stop giggling. It’s very unmanly. But, you know, my hair iskind of stupid, Lance.”

“Of course your hair is stupid. That’s hardly the point.”

“Right. Of course. So that’s good then. We all agree my hair’s stupid which makes me feel so much better about being me, but my stupid hair isn’t the point. So, what is the point?”

“The point is, your stupid hair is none of his fucking business. Which he just didn’t seem to get. And since it didn’t seem likely that he was going to be getting it any time soon, I told him to bug off. End of story.”

“Kind of a dumb reason to break up,” Joey said. “Just, you know. If all your boyfriends are going to have to like Chris’ hair, you’re probably going to find the pickings pretty slim.”

Chris nodded and shook his dreds at Lance. “Man’s got a point.”

“Yeah, well, you guys are as dense as he was, so you’re in no position to be offering advice. Now, is someone going to pass me a beer, or do I have to tell Lynn y’all are feeding Justin alcohol again?”

Within a month, they were back in the States, and Lance started dating in earnest. There were more opportunities, for one thing. He’d finally come out to his mom, and to help him celebrate, Chris bought him a copy of Fodor’s Gay Guide to the USA. Joey, Chris and JC took turns hauling him off to gay bars in whatever city they happened to be touring, and that turned out to be just the kick start Lance needed. For the next few weeks, before their faces were so well known they couldn’t buy a pop in corner store without being asked for an autograph, he was out with a different guy almost every night. 

Prodded for details one night when Lance was hitting the clubs and the rest of them were kicking back and getting stoned at the hotel, Joey told Chris that Lance wasn’t actually “um, doing it” with any of the guys he dated. 

“Do you think maybe he’s not really gay?” Justin asked. “Because that’s pretty weird, isn’t it? For a gay guy?”

Chris decided not to smack him in the head, mostly because he was too stoned to want to move that quickly, but also because Joey beat him to it.

“That’s kind of an offensive stereotype, you know, Justin,” JC said. “I don’t know where on earth you got the idea that just because a person is gay he’ll jump into any old bed just because it’s there.”

“Yeah, you don’t wanna be basing your conceptions of the gay lifestyle on JC’s mating habits,” Chris told him. “Some gay folk actually prefer to be introduced before they start sucking a guy’s dick.”

JC just snickered happily and rolled another joint. “Whatever. Sometimes I just don’t have time for the social niceties. You know how busy we are.”

“Yeah, okay, blah blah blah. Enough about you. Why isn’t Lance getting laid, that’s what I want to know.”

“Maybe Justin’s right.” JC took a long hit and passed the joint to Joey. “Maybe he’s a closet heterosexual?”

“A closet girl, maybe,” Chris said. He pinched Joey’s thigh. “Tell him to stop being such a fucking miss priss wussie boy and start getting some action. He’s giving boybanders a bad name.”

“Shit! That hurt! Pinch me again and I’m gonna give you a swirlie you won’t forget in a hurry. And Lance isn’t a wuss.”

“No, he’s not,” Justin agreed. “Maybe he just wants the first time to be--“

“What? Special? You think maybe he wants his first time to be magical? Perf--“

“His own business, perhaps?”

At the sound of the deep voice, they all swivelled around to see Lance in the doorway, glaring at them.

“This is pathetic. I can’t believe you guys are sitting around on a Saturday night discussing my sex life.”

“Or lack thereof,” Chris supplied helpfully. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, pretty boy. We’re only looking out for your best interests. Joe here was saying you’re not getting any, Justin thought maybe you had a couple of X chromosomes you’d forgotten to mention, and JC was offering to learn you all about being a big ole gay slut. I said we should just leave to you to get your cherry busted in your own good time. Because, come on, guys. This prying into Lance’s personal business has just got to stop. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go pick up a hooker or start a bar fight or something.”

They were halfway through their U.S. promo tour when Lance finally got laid for the first time. It was one of the sound technicians, an intense, nerdy sort of guy with Elvis Costello glasses and a tattoo of Mighty Mouse on his left bicep. Lance had started eyeing him in Minneapolis, had a developed a strong interest in sound technology in Lake Buena Vista, and by the time the bus pulled in to Providence, the two of them had been disappearing at regular intervals during set up. 

Three days later in New York City, when they guys all met for breakfast to celebrate the fact that they had the next few days off,  Chris didn’t need to ask Joey what Lance had been doing the night before. He arrived at the restaurant rumpled and happy, his lips all red and smooshed looking and his hair sticking out every which way.

“Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled breathlessly, sitting down beside Joey. “What?” he asked, looking around the table at their curious faces.

“Finally put out last night, Bass?” asked Chris, passing him a menu.

Lance didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. The blush that crept from under his collar, up his neck and over his cheeks said it all. 

JC smiled and gave him the thumbs up. Joey wrapped an arm around his shoulder in a proud squeeze. Justin, never too swift in the morning, peered from Lance to JC to Joey to Chris and back to Lance, then yelled, “Dude! You slept with him? That’s fucking awesome!”

“Oh my god,” Lance groaned, hunching over and looking like he was going to try and slide under the table. 

“No, but, wow. That’s so cool, Lance. Was it--? What did-? I mean, did you--?”

“You have to shut up right now. Chris, make him shut up before I die of embarrassment.”

Mighty Mouse nerd boy lasted a couple of weeks, until Lance found him in the back of the wardrobe truck with one of the electricians. After that, there was a succession of guys remarkable only for their total lack of suitability. Lance had the most appalling taste in men imaginable. It was like he chose his dates with a bag over his head and mashed potatoes stuffed in his ears. Chris studied each new guy for redeeming qualities, but it was hopeless. To a man, they were too stupid, too arrogant, too intellectual, too plastic, too political, too apolitical, too dirty, too boring, too hairy, too good looking or too hideous to really be allowed out on the street.

It was a struggle to be civil to most of them, but he found that if was rude or mean, Lance tended to date them for longer, so he tried to control himself. Sustained restraint really wasn’t in his repertoire, though. If he kept suppressing all his well-intentioned criticism, he’d do himself a serious damage, maybe even develop an ulcer. And Lance might end up in a terrible relationship with a terrible boyfriend and it would all be Chris’ fault. This just wasn’t healthy, for either of them. 

Finally, after another morning spent trying to make stultifyingly boring small talk with the latest conquest, Chris hit on his brilliant idea. Letters. Anonymous letters. The tried and true method of mentoring from the sidelines. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Dear Lance,

It pains me to do this, but, dude, somebody’s got to. I’d say this to your face, but you’re a prickly little snot and I’d just as soon keep my teeth.

It’s about this new boyfriend. Darren, was it? He’s about as charismatic as a tick on a dog’s ass, and almost as pretty. I’m sure you’re thinking that neither of those is necessarily reason enough to kick him to the curb, although some might say they’re a pretty good start. I’d be the first to tell you to grapple him to your soul with hooks of steel (or is that ‘hoops’ of steel? I’m a bit rusty on Willie the Shake these days) if those were his only faults. Which they fricking well aren’t, which brings me to the point of this letter, which is that your boyfriend sucks and this is why:

1.       He has no sense of humour. And I’m not just talking about how much he whined when that wastebasket got stuck on his head.

2.       His taste in clothes is even worse than yours used to be. Not to mention, he doesn’t have the ass to carry off skin tight pants. Not to mention he’s crushing his nuts in those things and he probably won’t even be able to get it up by Christmas.

3.       He gave Justin a dirty look when your back was turned. For no reason. Justin was totally not in on the wastebasket incident.

4.       I think he was coming on to your mom in the bar last night.

5.       Or maybe he was coming on to your dad. I couldn’t be sure. (When they’re visiting, you should probably just stop dating. Less embarrassing for everyone.)

6.       You might be allergic to him. I’ve noticed you seem to break out more when he’s around.

7.       He doesn’t wash his hands after he goes to the bathroom. That’s just wrong.

8.       He likes country music and you really don’t need any encouragement in that area.

9.       I don’t want to alarm you, but he looks an awful lot like the guy on last week’s episode of America’s MostWanted.

10.     People with eyes that close together are usually bed wetters by the time they’re thirty. Really. It’s a proven fact.

 

I’m only telling you this because I care.

Love,

A Concerned Friend 

Lance opened the letter the next day on the bus while Chris pretended to be absorbed in ‘The Price is Right.’ He didn’t punch Darren’s number into his cell phone and tell him to peddle his tight pants elsewhere, which wasn’t entirely surprising, but he didn’t get all tight lipped and snooty, either,  like he usually did when someone got too far into his business. He read it, laughed, read it again, and then passed it to Joey, who read it out loud in a high pitched voice with an excess of hand waving and fist shaking while Lance laughed some more. 

Darren didn’t last more than a couple of days after that, though, so all in all, Chris decided, the letter had to be deemed a success. Cool. Just like that he’d hit on the perfect weapon for disposing of Lance’s more gruesome boyfriends, which was to say ninety per cent of them

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Chris met Dani a few months later,  and suddenly Lance’s boyfriends slipped a notch or two on the priority scale. It wasn’t so much that Chris stopped paying attention, because he didn’t. That would have been wrong. Somebody had to keep an eye on Lance since Joey obviously sucked at it and Lance was so clearly clueless when it came to men, but Chris was insanely busy now. There just wasn’t time to monitor the comings and goings in Lance’s bed as closely as they needed to be monitored, and Chris found himself making mistakes. On one occasion, he accidentally sent Lance a critique of the guy JC was dating, and on another he sent a scathing report on a guy Lance had dumped two weeks previously. It was embarrassing. 

Eventually, he decided to compromise by restricting his reviews to the few who lasted more than a couple of weeks, and he found that much more manageable. In the two years he went out with Dani, only five guys had whatever it took to hold Lance’s interest for longer than five weeks; none of them made it past six, which was damned lucky because otherwise Chris would have had to stage an intervention. It was shocking what a poor judge of character Lance seemed to be when it came to men.   

Chris was having lunch with Lance a few months into his relationship with Dani, when he suddenly wondered if Lance was jealous. He didn’t know why it occurred to him at that moment. Lance wasn’t acting jealous, and he’d never seemed to be jealous of any of the people Chris had dated before, but there was something about the odd little smile on his face when Chris said that Dani might just be the one. 

He watched Lance shake salt onto his fries and then bury them under half a bottle of ketchup. 

“Does it bother you? Me and Dani, I mean? Are you. You know. Bothered?”

Lance didn’t pretend not to understand what he was talking about. “At first, yeah. A bit. But I like Dani. A lot. And you deserve someone who can make you happy like she does.” He smiled at Chris, his face as open as a summer sky, and Chris knew he was telling the truth.

Just one more reason to be glad he’d turned Lance down so many times in the past, if he was prepared to let go that easily. Not that Chris minded, of course, because he totally didn’t.

He leaned over and pinched Lance’s cheek. “You’ll find someone too, kid. You just need to stop looking in dumpsters or under rocks..”

A year later, when Chris and Dani broke up, Chris hated to admit it but he was secretly glad Lance hadn’t found his perfect man yet. Lance was the only person whose company Chris could stand for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch. 

Justin, his supposed best friend, kept foisting self-help books on him, and then insisted on quizzing him to see if he’d gained any insights into the reasons for the break up. The fucker even went so far as to sign Chris up for some kind of new age-y build-a-healing-relationship seminar where he was supposed to learn all about how to free his inner romantic and plan intimate encounters featuring body painting and chocolate fondue. 

JC was fine at first, but when Chris still hadn’t moved past the insult-everyone-who-tries-to-talk-to-you phase after three weeks, he started to get testy, and then started looking hurt, and well, really, who could stand to see that look on JC’s face.

Joey was useless because he just cried whenever Chris looked the least bit sad, or when he got nasty, or when he pretended everything was cool, which meant he was misty-eyed pretty much every second Chris spent in his company.  

Lance, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do. He took Chris out, got him liquored up, and told him to fuck off whenever he behaved like a shit. He didn’t take any crap and, even better, didn’t take anything personally. He also didn’t insist on talking the fucking thing into a second death. 

Best therapy ever, Chris thought to himself one night as Lance helped him stagger his way back to the hotel room.Couldn’t find better if you paid for it. Lance was a real friend. A real, true blue, super duper buddy friend, he thought as he swiped his key card somewhere in the vicinity of the ridiculously narrow slot that kept floating up and down the side of the door. 

Smart, too, he thought, as Lance yanked the card out of his hand, turned it around and ran it through the slot.

Not to mention strong, he thought, as Lance tightened his grip on Chris’ waist and half walked, half carried him across the room and sat him on the bed.

And pretty, he reminded himself as Lance knelt in front of him and started unlacing his shoes. Very pretty. As pretty asDani. As sexy as Dani, too. And. Fuck. Hot. Lance was hot. When the hell had that happened? How had he missed it? And why hadn’t anyone told him? JC must have noticed. Chris was going to kick his ass next time he saw him.

“I. Um. I changed my mind,” he said, reaching out and touching Lance’s cheek with his fingertips. The forward momentum almost toppled him right onto Lance’s head, but he managed to grab hold of the quilt and anchor himself just in time.

“You changed your mind? So. Jay Leno?”

“Mm, what?”

“You’d rather nude wrestle with Jay Leno?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“We’re not still talking about wrestling, are we? I thought we were still talking about wrestling. ‘Cause in the elevator, you said you’d rather nude-wrestle Phil Donahue than Jay Leno. So, you know. I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“I did not say that in the elevator. You’re full of shit, Bass. Donahue? Why would I say something like that?”

“I really can’t help you there, Chris. I don’t know. Not a clue. Nobody else in the elevator seemed to be able to figure it out either. Or maybe they were still confused because you kept yelling, ‘It’s a trap! It’s a death trap!’ and pounding on the doors.”

“I always do that in elevators.”

“Yes. I know. And it never wears thin. Really.”

“Bitch.” Chris gave Lance’s ear a sharp twist. “It doesn’t ever wear thin. Have you got my shoes off yet?”

“Uh huh. You want to get undressed or just crawl under the covers?” Lance nods towards the bed, and Chris notices the glint of light in his hair from the bedside lamp, the stretching of the tendon in his neck.

“Um.” Oh, wait a second. Right. Lance. Hot. “That reminds me. I was saying something.”

“Yeah. You changed your mind. Not about nude wrestling.”

“Shut up. Don’t distract me.” He wished Lance was a little uglier. These things were always easier if weren’t you constantly being sidetracked by your dick making its presence known. “I changed my mind. About, um. You. I changed my mind about you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Could you sound less excited?”

“Maybe. If I had any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Fuck, you’re obtuse tonight. I’ve changed my mind about wanting to. You know. Fuck around with you.”

“Oh!” Lance gave a little jump, his eyes going wide like Chris had just threatened to kneecap his sister. “Oh.”

 “Do you--“ 

Before Chris could finish the thought, Lance’s palms were on his knees, and then he was hauling himself to his feet.

“Chris,” he said. “I just.” He shrugged, and bent to touch his lips to Chris’ forehead, the briefest whisper of skin against skin. “You need to,” he pulled back, meeting Chris’ gaze. “I’m really sorry, Chris, but you need to go rebound somewhere else.”

Before Chris could argue, Lance had moved in again, his mouth against Chris’, his tongue against Chris’ lips, hot and insistent and tasting like whiskey and peanuts. Just as suddenly, it was gone, Lance was gone, across the room and through the door, and all Chris could do was sit and stare stupidly at the now empty patch of reddish brown carpet between his feet.

The memory of the kiss remained on Chris’ lips for the three minutes it took to crawl into bed and fall asleep, through several tequila inspired nightmares, two early morning trips to the bathroom, and still lingered there as he forced himself to choke down the plateful of bacon and eggs he ordered from room service the next morning.

Lance was a bastard, just no doubt whatsoever about that. Fucker. He’d probably just turned Chris down out of spite. What the hell was wrong with rebound sex, anyway? 

Whatever. If Lance wanted to be that way, fuck it. If he thought he was getting a second chance, he had another think coming. Chris rooted around in the desk drawers until he found a page of hotel stationery and a pen and started to write.

Dear Lance,

You may wonder why you can’t seem keep a boyfriend to save your life, so here. Let me help you figure it out.

Your boyfriends scatter like buckshot because:

a)      You’re an ass

b)       You don’t know a good thing when one drops in your lap (or on the bed in front of you)

c)       You don’t know how to take someone’s shoes off without getting the laces tangled into the worst fucking knots I’ve ever seen. Hey! Did you do that on purpose?

d)       You’re nowhere near as hot as you think you are. Okay, you probably are, but whatever. Some people liked you before you were hot.

e)      Rebound sex is fantastic but you’ll never know now because you’re a stupid snot. If you think you’re going to get a second chance, you’re just going to have to think again. wait and see. do a whole bunch of grovelling and maybe throw in a few sexual favours. think again. 

Love,

A concerned friend


(Chris)

He was going to tear the letter up and throw it away, but when he opened the minibar in search of some orange juice, he accidentally downed one or three hair-of-the-dog mini gins as well, and after that, slipping the letter under Lance’s hotel room door seemed like a much better plan. 

Backstage before the show that night, Lance was deep in conversation with Joey when Chris arrived. He didn’t even deign to acknowledge Chris’ presence, so Chris guessed he was pissed off about the letter. Or about Chris coming on to him the night before. Or both. He was trying to figure out how to apologize without actually saying he was sorry when Lance glanced over at him and, instead of turning up his nose, tipped him an enigmatic wink and then smiled as though Chris had just given him the moon on toast.

The kid was weird. No doubt about it.

Part 3 is here.