Friday, August 15, 2008


Robert's Wedding (Part 1)

"You find him . . .attractive now, don't you?"
"Not really."
"What do you mean 'Not really'? He's good-looking, isn't he?"
"Well yes in a kind of 'standard' way. I just don't find him attracive."
"But you'd do it with him, right?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Oh I know he's not gay, but what if you had the chance."
And then he chuckled softly. Robert always seemed to be chuckling softly Slyly even. Slyness was his stock-in-trade. Or so he thought. He didn't think I knew what he was up to. Or rather he pretended not to think I knew what he was up to. For there he was, sizing up Billy Cowsill of all people. Billy was a big open-faced sandwich of white Americana. With his family's music career slipping into eclipse (soon to be obscured forever by the fictional version created when they declined to "come to terms" with the production company -- thus extended Shirley Jones' carerr and unleashing Danny Bonaduce on an unsuspecting world) Pace was a nice place for Billy. Not for me. And certainly not for Robert -- restless as bi-polar Siamese cat.

Robert was certainly attractive. Far more so than Billy. The floppy brown hair. The clear skin with tight well-proportioned facial features. A nice body, as far as I could tell (never saw him naked, or even shirtless.) The turn-off was his manner. He was trouble. Big trouble. I didn't trust him "from here to the door." He knew it. And he liked it. If he hadn't existed Patricia Highsmith would have invented him. Or Paul Bowles. Gay as Hell, but would rather die than admit it. But instead of deny outright he changed the subject. It was always "but let's talk about you." And in talking about me Robert could talk about himself.

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