Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

house.
    “What have I done now?” asked Michael.
    Brian smiled at him. “I was just explaining your Springsteen theory.”
    “It’s true,” said Michael. “Straight boys will go all the way for him.”
    Mrs. Madrigal turned to Brian. “Is he including you in this sweeping generality?”
    “Sure,” Michael cut in. “He’d do it for The Boss in a second.” He cast an impish glance in Brian’s direction. “I mean, if he asked you, right?”
    Brian actually got off on this. It was Michael’s way of socking an arm in friendship. “You’re a dipshit,” he told him, socking back in his own fashion.
    “I think it’s great,” said Michael. “Springsteen’s done wonders for guys named Bruce. There used to be such a stigma attached.” He paused for a moment, then added: “I’m late, y’all. I’d love to stick around and hash this out, but … Wren Douglas cannot be kept waiting.”
    It took Brian a moment to place the name. Then her face and chest flickered in his head like a soft-core video. “Oh, yeah. The fat model. You know her?”
    “No, but I’m a major fan. Mary Ann got me a ticket for the show today.”
    Mrs. Madrigal looked confused. “She’s … uh … heavy?”
    “Yeah,” said Brian, “but kind of hot.”
    “Kind of?” yelped Michael, with surprising indignation. “How about very?”
    Brian gave the landlady a you-and-me glance. “And he should know, right?”
    Michael headed for the lych-gate, stopping briefly to sniff a bud of Mrs. Madrigal’s sinsemilla. He staged a little mock swoon for her benefit, then said: “Better be careful. They’re busting people for this now.”
    “Well,” said the landlady, remaining deadpan, “if Mrs. Reagan should drop by for tea, I trust you’ll give me fair warning.”
    Mrs. Madrigal agreed to keep Shawna for a few hours, so Brian did some shopping at the Searchlight Market (Diet Pepsi, a box of Milky Ways and the new Colgate Pump) before returning to The Summit. Back on the twenty-third floor, he found Nguyet Windexing the kitchen window with what appeared to be the last of the paper towels.
    And that reminded him: He had forgotten to buy toilet paper.
    So what do you use when the paper towels are gone?
    “Uh … Nguyet?”
    The maid stopped Windexing and looked at him, a nervous smile on her face.
    “This afternoon. When you go shopping. Buy toilet paper, O.K.?”
    Her smile faded; he had lost her.
    “Toilet paper … you know …” He considered miming it, then discarded the idea. Finally, he went to the bathroom and returned with the little cardboard tube.
    Nguyet’s face radiated understanding. “Ah,” she said. “Shommin.”
    “Right,” he replied. “Shommin. Buy Shommin this afternoon, O.K.?”
    She nodded energetically and returned to her labors, watching out of the corner of her eye as he searched the pantry and came up with a box of Melitta No. 4 coffee filters.
    Paper product in hand, he headed for the john, only to be stopped in his tracks by the monumental Wren Douglas, peering up at him from the bedside table. His cock stirred appreciatively, so he made a quick detour and took the book with him to the john.
    Vanessa Williams would just have to wait.

Wren in the Flesh
    R ISING LATE IN HER SUITE AT THE FAIRMONT HOTEL, Wren Douglas ordered a hearty breakfast, then ambled into the bathroom to take stock of the cornucopia of miniature creams and shampoos that undoubtedly awaited her. Hotel rooms were really the best part of a book tour. The bathroom bonuses you could stash away for future use. The king-sized beds with their sheets turned back and peppermint patties on the pillow. The thirsty, sweet-smelling towels and silent-flush toilets and TV sets hidden in armoires, ready to offer the transcontinental consolation of Mary Tyler Moore.
    This was her sixteenth city in three weeks. Her fat rap had become a well-worn tape, almost too fragile to survive another playing. She was sick of the sound of her own voice and sicker still of the Ken-and-Barbie anchoroids who habitually asked her the same four questions.
    Were you fat as a child? (“I was fat as a fetus. “) Do you think American women are being tyrannized by the current fitness craze? (“Not necessarily. Everyone should be as fit as possible, including fat people. The tyranny comes when we’re told we should all look the same.”)
    What are your vital statistics? (“Two hundred and two pounds … fifty-two, thirty-seven, fifty-seven … five feet eight