I had dinner last week with my non-husband husband Marc and our friend Kane. Two gay guys and me. All Cal grads. All city dwellers. All single. All verbally abusive.
I was running a tad bit late. When I got there, I beamed, “Kane, you look fabulous! Look at you and those muscles!!!” I hadn’t seen him in a while and was surprised by how much better he looked–not the skinny pipsqueak of a guy I was used to.
Marc looked at me with surprise. “Honey, he’s fat. That’s not muscle.” He burst into laughter. “He’s plain fat!”
Kane reddened. The poor boy gets red even sipping a Shirley Temple, but this time it was a combination of the wine and Marc’s bullying. “Yeah,” Kane admitted, “I’ve gained some weight.”
“Well, I think you look great. I don’t care if it’s fat. You look good and that’s all that matters. At least you don’t look anorexic anymore.”
Marc piped up, “Honey, what’s wrong with being anorexic? Cheers to that. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. Oh wait. You’ve tried it. Whoopsie. Next topic.”
I rolled my eyes. I love that we can strike right at the jugular and know that it’s fine. It’s just our way with each other.
After Marc waxed on about his boy toy and the sex being mediocre, he wanted in on every detail about my sex life.
“Why me?” I deflected. “Kane, who are you fucking?” Kane shook his head, indicating there was no one.
Marc insisted. My avoidance was killing him. “Marc, I’m not sleeping with anyone!”
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You just got back from Burning Man. You were there for like forever and a day. Spill it.”
“No, I swear. I don’t have sex at Burning Man. Eww, digusting.”
Marc whined like a little kid. “I don’t believe you. How can you go to Burning Man and not get any?”
“Look, I didn’t have sex alright? Yeah, I made out with someone. There was a blow job, but not really. It was more like a rape job. We were making out and the next thing you know, he forced his ding dong into my mouth. I’m telling you, it was a rape job. Not even really a job because I gave him like two pumps. Maybe three. Three is pushing it. Then he starts spraying all over the place and I’m like, ‘how is it that someone who’s 39 has so little self control?’ “
Marc and Kane were convulsing in laughter. After saying nothing, I now had given them all the detail they wanted.
Marc gave his assessment. “Do you know how long it takes me to cum? Honey, this guy really likes you. There’s no doubt about that.”
“Yeah, he liked me enough to ignore me at the end of the event.” I said it sullenly, maybe with an ever so slight choke of the words. And this is where true friends notice and jump into comfort mode.
Marc consoled. “What a loser. Barely three pumps you said? Unh-unh honey. It’s you who’s kicking him to the curb. That’s right. Better off without him. LOSER. You have dumped this guy and moved on, honey.”
The alcohol was getting to all of us. The logic was no longer there, but the encouraging words rang clear. Friendships are damn good that way.