I had to poop and Michaud, the one New York dandy of whom I have such violent opinion was keeping me from the scatological sanctuary of a faux marble stall in line a the Majestic Theatre Monday night.
After curiously apologizing for utterly ruining my Hurricane Katrina dinner, he fumbled with his words (though I despise him, his eloquence almost rivals my own) and cautiously said to me.
“Gayest Neil … I think I’m heterosexual.”
I nearly shit my pants!
Here was the second fanciest man in the New York dandy circle telling me that he believed he’s straight?! I guffawed! “What?! Are you certain? How do you know? Maybe it is a phase?”
His eyes began to tear up as I began to do a pee-pee dance. “Listen… Michaud, stand over there. I must relieve myself before I fudge my frillies. Do not leave and I’ll return toot sweet.”
As I enjoyed the relief of the men’s lavatory I couldn’t help but emit a silent giggle between concentrated grunts. I have known Michaud for nearly eight years, indeed it is our unspoken acknowledgement of each other’s ancient existences that breeds the most vehemence between us both. Much like two bitchy dinosaurs leery should one reveal the other’s carbon-date, yet joyous that he knows so many secrets of the other’s fossil, yet still again leery. That and Michaud has absolutely disgusting taste in drapery.
I passively flirted with the latino towel boy and found Michaud where I had left him. He seeming to be in a catatonic state.
“Michaud? Michaud, snap out of it!” I nearly reached for my smelling salts, but he lifted his gaze to mine and apologized for his indiscretion.
“I have no idea what has come over me Neil. And I certainly don’t know why of all people I chose you to confide in. Please don’t tell anyone.”
“Uh… sure Michaud.” Wink, wink. Fingers defiantly crossed behind my back.
Michaud continued, “Over the holidays I rode in my horse drawn, antique English carriage along the paths in Central Park. My Belgian escort, Luus, and I enjoyed hot toddies as we sat in silence. And I began to think about my life. The choices I’ve made.“
“Oh Gayest Neil, I just feel so very empty inside. I’ve been so snide for so long that I feel I know no other emotion! I’ve lost all the gaiety in gay.” At this point he began to cry quietly into his monogrammed silk handkerchief.
I rested my hand on his forearm and led him to a bench in the theatre’s atrium. “Michaud, cruelty is the gay man’s gift to the rest of the world. The spiteful barbs you toss off serve the wonderful purpose of making everyone else look nicer while drawing acrimonious attention to those who deserve your hurtful comments. I never said so but your worst-dressed list this year was downright inspired.”
“You think so?” He sniffed and patted his eye as dark rings of mascara formed.
“But I think I like the female form.”
“Yes…I do too. I admire artist interpretations of the female figure. I too can see the beauty in…” I was interrupted.
“No. Not that way. I mean – I crave the flesh of a naked woman pressed against my own.”
And with that a shrill scream echoed across the lobby of the Majestic Theatre. A trio of young girls seeking autographs from two former Christines giggled. I caught my breath and spoke in a hushed tone.
“Michaud, you mean as in carnally? You mean sex?!”
“Yes... I want to be less malignant and I desire the touch of a woman. I am truly heterosexual.”
Michaud and I continued to chit-chat, but nothing else of relevance was discussed. Our knees were politely crossed and we primly held our hands in our laps, however any student of etiquette could plainly see the discomfort expressed via both our postures. Finally Michaud excused himself. I offered to call a sedan for him, but he declined, instead saying he planned to walk a bit – to clear his head.
We rose and instead of a sociable kiss he offered me his hand. He wasn’t holding a card or a compact, no, he was offering to shake hands! Indeed! So I politely took his slender palm and he shook my hand with such strength and vigor it nearly cracked my pinky! I gasped at the rough housing. He winked and smiled and I felt my face deepen in rose colour.
And Michaud turned his four inch heels and tick-tacked out of the lobby, leaving me alone and flushed, nurturing my bent hand while pondering the astounding revelation of my one time enemy's straight discovery.
And, sadly I report, despite my best intentions – lost in the throes of love making with my very sexy boyfriend (with whom I’m indeed very much in love) – my mind couldn’t help trailing back to that incredibly firm handshake and the determined look of machismo in Michaud’s eyes. Those eyes...
Oh God, what am I feeling?!