Part 12 (2/2)

But you're right, he doesn't really care. Kentucky is notoriously lax on such things. It hasn't been all that long since they raised the drinking age to twenty-one, and they don't very often bust bars for serving to minors.

Still, I wouldn't stand right in front of the guy, sipping bourbon. He might decide to get nasty.

Fringe Is a lot different than I thought it would be.

I expected sleazy, but it borders on upscale, all dark wood and bra.s.s and suede.

It's not that late, as bar scenes go, so the place isn't too crowded. Still, maybe fifty or sixty guys are drinking, laughing, and hitting on other guys, if they're not coupled up already. Loren and I find cushy chairs in the back, and he goes to order drinks.

I use the opportunity to check out the river of faces.

Many are average. You wouldn't look twice at them on the street. A few you wouldn't want to look at. Okay, they're not very attractive, and when they openly stare at me, it creeps me out completely.

There are also some beautiful men here. Most of them are younger, yet a fair number gravitate toward much older guys. I don't think it's all about love. I watch a decent-looking middle-aged man, sandy haired and very well dressed, head off to the men's room.

Within three minutes, his young companion flirts obnoxiously.

Glad he didn't pick me to flirt with. When the older guy returns, he is not pleased.

He slams his fist on the table, grabs his designer overcoat, and stomps toward the door, followed by the younger guy.

If I beat up a table, would Loren follow me out the door?

Would He Decide to Stay If I tried coercion instead of a simple plea? What if I threatened his family?

Like I could, considering I don't know who-or where- they are. He's never shared that information with me, nor told me where he went to school, or how (or if) he outed himself.

That's a lot not to tell me.

He returns now with two sugar-rimmed gla.s.ses, filled with amber liquid and some sort of green leaves. Mint juleps, he says.

Froufrou drinks? I take a big swallow, fight to not choke.

”H-holy c.r.a.p. What's in these things?” Whatever it is burns going down.

He can't help but laugh.

Bourbon. A little sugar syrup, some mint leaves, but other than that, bourbon. Sip, don't gulp.

I'm Doing a Fair Job Of sipping, not gulping, when one of the most incredible-looking men I've ever seen shakes his b.u.t.t by. My mouth must have dropped open, because Loren turns to see what I'm staring at. My, my.

He is a fine work of art, isn't he? We watch the guy cozy up to a what might be less than affectionately termed ”old f.a.ggot.” Within five seconds, the ancient dude is buying the fine work of art a drink. ”What's up with that?”

Oh hon, haven't you ever heard the term ”sugar daddy”? Lots of young guys go looking for easy drinks, easy meals, maybe even a place to stay. When you look like him-he points toward Pretty Boy, then he turns and his eyes scan my face-or you, it isn't hard at all to find someone who'll take care of you. Sometimes they'll set you up in your own place, or move you into theirs. Sometimes you live like a movie star, even. The price tag is regular s.e.x.

He waits for my reaction.

”Regular s.e.x, with someone like that?” I take a deep drink of minty bourbon, actually enjoy the burn.

”I could never do that!”

Loren shakes his head.

Never say never, dear.

You might be surprised at what you can do, should circ.u.mstances dictate.

A Poem by Whitney Lang Circ.u.mstances Create our conception, how we live, what kind of person we manage to grow into. Another day, a different hour, take a left and not a right, you'd wind up a whole different being. Knowing if that would be better requires a realm of experience only decades can build.

Roses? Lilies? Moonlight?

Sunlight?

Which do I prefer? Ask me again in thirty or forty years.

Whitney

The Best Thing

About my mom being such a b.i.t.c.h is not worrying about trying to make her proud of me. Smoke it up, drink it up, and if I happen to get caught, well, wouldn't it just slay her if the news got around?

Kyra, too. Oh, she'd pretend that her concern was all about me, rather than her precious reputation, but that would be total toad c.r.a.p. ”Total toad c.r.a.p.” TTC. Hey, I like that. TTC, my new spew.

Kyra's Home From Va.s.sar. Normal college geeks go to places like Florida or Mexico for spring break. Not Kyra.

She comes home to spend time with Mom, who actually rescheduled a tennis game to take her into the city.

I sooooo need some new clothes, Kyra fished.

The styles back east are sooooo not me, you know?

Like jeans aren't the same beyond the Mississippi.

Like you can't find angora in Manhattan! TTC, for sure.

Mom swallowed the bait.

We'll run up to Sacramento Street. There's a new boutique I've been dying to check out.

Then maybe Daddy can take time to have lunch with us. New York seafood can't possibly compare to San Francisco's.

Sounds fun, said Kyra. Give Daddy a call and see if he can make it. I'll go take a shower.

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