Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

himself, cock in hand, smirking ruthlessly at the latecomer. Michael looked away from him, fearful of losing the moment altogether.
    After a while, he got into it. There were some hot guys there—including that number from Muscle System—and the porn video suited his tastes perfectly. Once his self-consciousness had passed, he began to savor the sensation he had missed so dearly, the lost tribalism of years gone by. It wasn’t the way it used to be, but it stirred a few memories just the same.
    He was on the verge of coming when two men next to Teddy’s La-Z-Boy rose and left the room. They were followed, moments later, by three others. Presently a small din was emanating from the foyer, where the dressing ceremonies had begun.
    The guttural commands and primal grunts of the video were no match at all for the brunch being planned beyond the bedspread. “Don’t do pasta salad,” someone said quite audibly. “You did that last time and everybody hated it.”
    The fantasy collapsed like a house of dirty playing cards. As Teddy exited through a sliding door to the dining room, Michael caught his eye with a rueful smile. Teddy leaned over and whispered in his ear: “There’s no such thing as being fashionably late for a JO party.”
    There were two other men left in the room. One of them, the Muscle System hunk, was watching the screen with unblinking single-mindedness; the other, in similar fashion, was watching Michael watch the hunk. It was getting too intimate, Michael decided, so he gave up the effort and left.
    He dressed hurriedly, avoiding conversation, then remembered his manners and thanked the host. As he headed down Noe toward his car, he stopped long enough to admire the reddish remnants of a sunset behind Twin Peaks.
    He could still hear the music down at Eighteenth and Castro.

A Handsome Offer
    W REN DOUGLAS AND THE LIMOUSINE DRIVER HAD watched the sunset from her big bed at the Fairmont. The ripening nectarine sky had been a perfect backdrop for their postcoital cuddling, a pagan benediction of sorts.
    “Does it do that often?” she asked.
    “Sometimes,” he replied. “When the weather’s warm like this.”
    Idly, she massaged his temples with her fingertips, then worked her way up to his scalp. He gave a little faux-Stallone moan and repositioned his head against her chest, as if he were plumping pillows. His dark, curly hair was pungent with Tenax.
    “This would make a fabulous ending,” she said. “The credits should be rolling over that sunset. Here endeth the book tour.”
    “Two more cities,” he mumbled.
    She gave his cheek a reproving whack. “Don’t remind me.”
    “Portland and Seattle, right?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You don’t wanna do it?”
    “I wanna do nothing,” she said. “I wanna lie around and be a total slug.”
    The bedside phone rang, mangling her reverie. “That’s my publicist,” she said. “I’ll put money on it.” With one hand still buried in the driver’s curls, she grabbed the receiver and barked into it. “Yes, Nicholas my love, I’m still alive and I’m still on schedule.”
    There was no immediate response, no telltale bleat of laughter from the adenoidal Nicholas, so she realized her guess had been wrong. Eventually, the caller said: “I beg your pardon. I’m trying to reach Miss Douglas … Miss Wren Douglas?”
    “You got her,” she replied. “I thought you were somebody else.”
    “Oh,” said the caller.
    “What can I do for you?”
    “Well … I have some business I’d like to discuss with you. My name is Roger Manigault. I’m chairman of the board of Pacific Excelsior.”
    Excelsior? What? The packing material? What could a fat girl do for an excelsior company? “Sorry,” she said. “Never heard of it.” Using her free forefinger, she traced the fleshy oval of the driver’s lips, then popped the finger into his mouth. He sucked on it obligingly.
    “We make aluminum honeycomb,” explained the caller. “Among other things.”
    She didn’t know what that was and she didn’t care. “Oh … right. Why don’t I give you my agent’s number? You can tell her what you’ve got in mind. This really isn’t the best time to discuss …”
    “I’m in the lobby, Miss Douglas. I know this is irregular, but … time is of the essence. If I could have just ten minutes with you.”
    She looked down at the classic features of the fallen Pompeiian sprawled against her chest. “Look, Mr…. whatever. Maybe if you call tomorrow