Cupid's Sophomore Year, Semester 01

Pete reaches over and takes my hand.

"If that's what you want, then all you can do is wait. If it's meant to be, he'll come around."

I'm just about to thank him for being the best friend ever when a familiar motion catches my eye--I can't see his face, but I can tell even from a distance that it's Dig making his way to the door. And wrapped around him is a...well, a woman. Her arm is around him, and she's leaning on him pretty heavily. He escorts her out the door of the restaurant, and onto the sidewalk. He waves at a passing taxi, and as it pulls up the woman in his arms stumbles toward him. He holds her up, and she throws her arms around him and begins kissing him somewhat frenetically. He manages to get the door of the cab open, and to slide his date into the back seat. She pulls his arm suddenly, and he tumbles into the taxi on top of her. There's some energetic scrabbling, and finally he reaches around behind and pulls the door shut. The taxi pulls out, spiriting the happy couple away.

I turn back to Pete, dumbstruck.

"What?" he asks.

"That was Diggler," I manage to croak out.

"That guy? Didn't you say he was not really on board with your idea that he should find a woman to date?"

I nod.

"Because he seemed pretty on board right then," he concludes, as if I hadn't seen the exact same display he's just witnessed.

I take a deep breath, try to find the upside. "It looks like he's on his way to finding out if it's women he wants. It'll be nice just to know."

"I hope you get the answer you're looking for," Pete offers, ever the good friend. But his tone tells me he's coming to the same conclusion I am--Diggler is pretty damn straight.

"Yeah, me too."

After dinner we walk back to campus, and I drop Pete off at his dorm. I could come up and seek solace in the arms of my Calvin and Reese, but I'm too muddled by what I've seen at the restaurant to be good company. I head back to my room and get ready for bed, even though it's only 9. Sometimes it's better to be unconscious.

It's mid-morning by the time I wake up, and the first thing I do is reach under my pillow for my phone. No message from Dig. I am momentarily shocked at how sad this makes me, but I only have a few seconds to contemplate my sorry state when the phone rings. It's Diggler.

"Hey," I say into the phone, attempting a jaunty tone. I'm not sure it worked, but at least I gave it a try.

"It's Saturday," Dig says by way of greeting.

"Yes, yes it is," I reply. I'm not really a conversationalist until after the first cup of coffee.

"A week ago, we were here, and we said that in a week's time we could be back here."

"As long as one condition was met," I remind him. I don't for a moment think he's forgotten, particularly after last night's scene at the restaurant.

"Yeah, about that," he says, sounding reluctant indeed to broach the topic. Now, I know I was the one who forced him to agree to go out with a woman, so I shouldn't be upset now that he's done what I asked. But rationality has never been my strength when it comes to romance. Or sex. Or food. Or...oh, never mind.

"What about that?" I prompt. Might as well get it all out.

"I couldn't bring myself to do it, Josh. I'm sorry."

"You couldn't bring yourself to have sex with a woman?" This may work out after all.

"Actually, I couldn't bring myself even to go out with a woman. Every time I thought about asking a girl out, I just kept thinking about you, and how I would so much rather be with you than with her. So I ended up just sitting home alone thinking about you. It sounds pathetic, I know."

No, what it sounds like is a load of crap. I can handle just about anything a guy can dish out, but lying is a deal-breaker.

"So, you didn't go out at all?" I ask, trying to keep the bile in the back of my throat from making my voice bitter.

"Nope. I tried, really I did. But I just couldn't. I hope you understand."

Yeah, I understand pretty well, actually. My latest prospective boyfriend turns out to be lying piece of shit.

"No, I don't get it. What does this mean, for us?"

"It means you should just get yourself over here so we can pick up where we left off. You're what I want, Josh. I know that now. You're what I need."

That's when it clicks. Dig "needs" me as a reliable Plan B, a fuck buddy he can count on when he needs a release. He still wants to date women--that's where he'll live his real life--but he wants to keep me in reserve for when the chick passes out in the back of the cab and can't get him off. Fuck. Why did I think this was going to work?

"Actually, I have a different plan in mind. It goes like this: I don't come over this morning, and you never call me again. How's that? Does that work for you?"

I hang up the phone, and switch it off.

And stuff it back under my pillow.

And spend the rest of the day crying.

# 13 #

First Mitchell, now Diggler. I'm 0 for 2 in the romance department. Mitch I never hear from--he's probably in the loving, reconciled arms of Thea. Diggler I do hear from--at least I hear his ringing of my phone a dozen times a day. He finally gets the hint after a week and half.

I spend every waking moment that I'm not in class--or attending to the towelly needs of the athletes--moping around the suite. On the weekends I sleep late, awaken surly and caffeine-deprived, and then make a sport out of peeing on the good spirits of my roommates.

I'm kind of a bitch right now.

On a Sunday afternoon about three weeks into my pitiful slump I'm sitting on the futon under Porter's bed, right where Diggler performed that night, what--a few weeks ago?--trying to figure how it all went so weird.

"Josh?" It's Porter, back from his weekly volunteer work at the shelter. He raises the spirits of the homeless by being beautiful. Or cooking pancakes or something.

I realize I must look for all the world like the lovelorn heroine in a Jane Austen novel, in that sad and bleak chapter after the supposed nobleman has revealed himself to be an utter cad. The thought should shame me into sitting up straight and at least pretending to be fine, just fine, but then I would deny myself the warm presence of the dishy vicar, here to comfort me with truisms about human nature. I embrace my inner jilted heroine, and look up at Porter through what I hope are tear-glittered eyelashes.

"Dude," he says, in a tut-tutting sigh. He doesn't disappoint in the dishy vicar area--he sets himself down next to me on the futon and gives me the full measure of his charm. Arched eyebrows, wry half-grin, slow shrug of his broad shoulders; his hand finds my knee to drive the point home. The heroine is warmed.

"Gonna tell me about it?" he asks, gently, in that honey rumble of a voice.

"Not much to tell."

"You trying to make me believe that 'not much' has been keeping you locked up in the suite, staring at walls?" He shakes his head. "That 'not much' took away your will to liven up every conversation with crude sexual innuendo?"

I guess I have let some things go lately.

"We're worried about you," he says, softly.

"Who's we?" I ask, then remember that I know the answer--of course it's Dexter, because they share everything.

"All of us. Dex and me and Seth."

"Seth? Seriously?"

Porter nods. "He says you're not sleeping, or at least not sleeping well."

"Great. Next you're going to tell me I've been crying out someone's name in my sleep or something."

Porter chuckles.

"What's so funny?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says, unconvincingly.

I fix him with my special stare. The one that tells people I don't like to shut up and the ones I do to get undressed.

"Okay, okay!" he relents, obviously startled. "Seth said that you...well--"

"What?"

"You've been making noises. In your sleep. Like...a chicken."

My turn to be startled.

"What?"

"Chicken. He says you've been sounding like a chicken at night. You know, clucking."

"Has Seth been going to bed drunk?"

"No! He says that several times a night you wake him up going 'Cluck! Cluck! Cluck!'"

Okay, this is seriously weird.

"Why would I be doing that?"

"Hell if I know. Why do you think you've been doing that?"

"Cluck, cluck, cluck, huh?" I mutter. Then it hits me. Oh. Clark Clark Clark. Shit.

Before I can squelch my shock, I catch Porter's eye. His lips are moving, and he's figured it out too. I look quickly back down to the floor.

"Oh, oh, fuck--I'm sorry," he blurts. I can sense him studying my face for a reaction. I look up at him, a fresh surge of tears in my eyes. "It's Clark, isn't it?" he whispers.

Right on cue, the dishy vicar has named the scoundrel who betrayed the naive trust of our lovelorn heroine.

"Shit," he says, simply.

I rest my head in my hands. I huff out a breath, hoping thereby to arrest the sob that's rising in my chest.

"What happened? What did he do to you?" His voice suddenly takes on a steely edge--like a knife he's ready to wield in defense of my honor. "I swear, if he--"

"No!" I object, perhaps a little frantically. I take a calming breath. "He didn't do anything."

Porter looks at me, squinty, for a long moment.

"Was that the problem, then? That he didn't do anything? Didn't want to do anything?"

I sigh. I had hoped he would decorously abstain from further questions. The dishy vicar would have.

"No. That's not it. We just couldn't come to an agreement on some things."

Porter nods slowly. "I see," he says, finally.

"Did he tell you anything about what happened?"

"No. But we don't talk about stuff much. You know--guys."

I nod. That's the problem right there.

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

"So, you're coming to dinner," he says, standing.

"Nah," I answer, turning to the window to contemplate my woeful existence in peace.

"That wasn't a question," he says. "You're coming to dinner. You've missed the last two, and you're not missing this one. These Sunday dinners were your idea, and we want you there."

"Don't really feel like it, thanks," I say.

"Again, not an invitation. More of an intervention. You're coming to dinner."

My stupid, meddling, adorable roommates.

Over dinner the Wonder Twins tell me about the water polo team's Halloween party next weekend, and they invite me to come along (Seth's going to be out of town at some physics festival or whatever). I get the sense that this, too, is more intervention than invitation. I doubt it will raise my spirits--particularly if Diggler shows up with a date. At the very least I hope the costumes are skimpy and water soluble.

The next morning, I'm brushing my teeth when Porter comes to floss next to me. This is a huge departure--normally he and Dexter do this together.

"Hey, Porter?"

"Yeah, Josh?"

"Do you think that...uh, that Diggler is likely to be...uh..."

Luckily he saves me from my stumbling.

"No, Dig's not going to be at the Halloween party. He said he needs to be home next weekend. Probably that girl who's been hanging on him for the last couple of weeks is dragging him out of town. Maybe he's going to meet the parents or something." He looks at me, then he pales suddenly. "Oh, shit, sorry. That was really insensitive of me." He pauses, and then, satisfied that I'm not going to burst into tears over this mention of Diggler and a woman, "You gonna tell me what happened between you guys?"

Though it feels like I've been punched in the stomach, I'm not crying. This must be progress.

"It was nothing," I reply, which is both completely true and completely false at the same time. Either way, he's not convinced.

"Right," he nods, but he's too much of a gentlemen to press the issue, and he changes the subject abruptly. "What are you going to wear to the Halloween party?"

"Not sure yet. What about you?"

He grins. "Dex and I have an awesome idea. But it's a secret, so you're going to have to wait to see it."

I raise a critical eyebrow.

"I promise you, you're going to love it."

"Unless you're going as Lady Godiva's twin brothers, I'll reserve judgment."

"Trust me," he says, as he fires up his toothbrush. Maintaining that blinding white smile takes heavy equipment--the thing sounds like a leaf blower.

As the days pass it slowly dawns on me that I'm looking forward to the Halloween party--I haven't looked forward to anything in weeks. College students, as per stereotype, will take any excuse to drink too much, party too hard, and basically wreck any chance they have of being competent the next day. And in the pantheon of excuses for drunken debauchery, Halloween is pretty much the big dog. That it falls on a Saturday this year means that everyone will drink twice as much and make double the number of bad decisions. This is just what I need.

I never plan far enough in advance for Halloween, and this year is even worse because I expected to spend it moping. Friday night, therefore, finds me preparing my costume. I have gathered my materials: a white t-shirt and a purple marker. On the shirt I write things like "1. Ruin traditional marriage" and "2. Marry my gay lover and his dog." By the time I'm finished, the shirt is covered.

"What is that?" Seth asks when I finally look up from my labors, a bit dizzy from the marker fumes.

"I'm the Gay Agenda," I reply. "Scary, right?"

Seth never knows when to take me seriously; he shakes his head and returns to packing his slide rules for his big fun physics weekend.

The next evening Porter and Dexter offer to drive me to the Halloween party, which is being hosted by a couple of water polo alums who live across town. As we walk to their car, I realize that they twins aren't dressed up--they're in sweats, looking like they're heading to work out.

"Guys, what's up? Where's the great costume?"

They chuckle.

"All in good time," Dexter says from the driver's seat.

Porter turns back to me from the passenger seat to explain. "Our costumes aren't exactly street legal, so we're changing there."

Oh, this is promising.

We pull up outside a huge house on a street of huge houses--a very swank neighborhood I've never been to. The only sign that there's a party going on at all is a faint rumble of bass coming from the house we're in front of, and a glow of black light peeking through the curtains.

"So, who's throwing this shindig?" I ask the twins as we stroll up the long driveway.

"A couple of star players from a decade ago," Porter says. "They've done pretty well for themselves, right?"

I catch something in Porter's tone.

"When you say 'a couple' of players, do you really mean..."

He nods.

"Yep, they're a couple. And their parties are always amazing. They are an appreciative audience for the more creative costumes."

"What Porter means," Dexter leans in to explain, "Is that they encourage us to sex it up a bit."

"The guys on the team go along with that?"

"Oh hell yeah. The booze is top-shelf, the food is awesome, and the hosts don't mind if the guys slip off someplace quiet with their girlfriends."

Porter coughs critically.

"Or their boyfriends," Dexter amends, his voice oozing with fake solicitousness.

At this moment we arrive at the door, and Dexter knocks. Almost immediately, the door opens and there stands a vampire so convincingly rendered that I actually take a step back.

"Dexter! Porter!" the count cries in a thick Transylvanian accent. "And you have brought me an extra morsel! I am pleased." He stands aside, sweeping his silk-and-velvet cape back to invite us in. "Enter! But be warned--" he pauses here for dramatic effect, "I may not be able to resist sucking your...blood." He gives each of us an appraising look on our way past him. "Or anything else that looks tasty," he murmurs to me as I bring up the rear.

Given my recent state of mind, getting mashed on by a thirty-something vampire is actually pretty cool. I smile and wrap a protective hand around my neck.

We follow the music to where the party is already in full swing. There are some familiar faces here from the Towel Use Zone, but seeing guys naked is very different from seeing them dressed up as sexy scary things. The majority of them have brought dates, and a striking number of them have coordinated their costumes. Here a zombie couple--whose clothing has rotted away artfully--grind against each other, while over there a Founding Father sports a tea-party outfit--his formal colonial attire opens at the front to display a g-string that makes his balls into tea bags and his cock the string with a Lipton label. His Betsy Ross seems intent on trying to raise an insurrection.

I turn to thank the twins for inviting me, but they have disappeared. I shrug and make my way over to the table where the punchbowl sends a fog wafting over the food, and ask the mummy staffing the table for a drink.

"What's your pleasure?" insinuates a growly voice from beneath the bandages.

"Well, I like the looks of that philosopher over there," I gesture to a well-muscled gent in a short-short toga, "But I should probably just get a drink instead. What's good?"

"How about a nice bloody martini?" he asks, handing me a cocktail that indeed looks as though it has just spurted from an artery. I take a sip, and find that the boys were, in this as in all things, completely right--it's better hooch than I've ever had the pleasure of meeting at a party.

"Thanks, it's awesome."

"You're welcome. Love the shirt, by the way," the mummy says with a wink.

A little booze, a little flirting, a lot of beautiful boys gyrating around me--I can feel the dismal Diggler haze lifting from my life.

I'm pretty much tanked on my first drink when a hush settles over the party-goers. You know those weird silences that just sort of happen at parties, and you never know why? Well, this time I know why--the twins have appeared in their costumes, and everyone has stopped to look. All eyes--gay, straight, male, female, undead--are on them.

They are sporting baseball caps, black lines under their eyes--and jockstraps. That's it. I look them up and down and back up again, and then I see it--their caps have the Twins logo. Very clever.

I chuckle, but I'm the only one who seems to be reacting with anything other than sheer amazement. The looks on the faces of the other in the room tell the tale--the girls are trying not to gasp audibly at the perfect beauty of the twins, and the guys frown to see themselves outdone. This difference of opinion is not likely to lead to heterosexual bliss. There are, however, a few male couples who are in perfect agreement about their support for the Minnesota Twins.

Then the party starts up again--the twins have stepped into the crowd, and the pause button has been released. They come my way first--the eyes of the crowd are on them, and when they stand on either side of me I am bathed in the glow that they attract.

The twins, because they are perfect in their modesty as in all other things, are a bit taken aback by the reaction they have caused.

"You'd think," one says, and the other completes the sentence, "That they've never seen baseball players before."

I laugh.

"You two kill me. I'm used to this," I say, gesturing at their lovely, lovely bodies, "But most of these poor folks don't get to see you naked. You have to understand their shock and awe."

"Josh, you are too much." I hope that was Porter. I would like to be too much to Porter.

They reach for the drinks that mummy with the wandering eyes is handing them, and as they do I get to appreciate their costume from behind. They went all out for authenticity--their jockstraps are old-school, with a wide white band across the top of their perfect cheeks, and two smaller straps that plunge into the special place that lies between.

"If I'm not mistaken, you two have been tanning au naturel in preparation for the festivities."