In the wake of her brother Rich’s death, Diamond White and I had planned on becoming good friends our senior year at Keystone High, but it didn’t happen, mostly I believe because of her relationship with Cindy Starnes – a very possessive friend and generally disagreeable sort of person. But there were other factors to point to as well. Most importantly was likely the fact that Diamond was finally selected for the cheerleading squad her senior year after three years of trying out. Some would say it was only because of her popular brother’s death, but nobody would say such a thing to her face. Because of that, Diamond was often busy making posters on big rolls of butcher paper, decorating and performing in the Trojan pep rallies in the gymnasium, and heading off to games of every sort to cheer our boys to victory. Other than that, Diamond was usually somewhere with Cindy, “attached at the hip,” as Mrs. White put it once early that fall when I showed up at their trailer home to watch a tv show with Diamond but she had forgot about me.
Diamond was always sincerely apologetic about forgotten plans, and eager to make more, but the fact was she wasn’t anywhere nearly as comfortable with her newfound popularity as her brother had been with his. Still, she was cordial to me in the halls and school cafeteria, always called out my name and waved, if only to say hi and ask how I was doing, with Cindy Starnes forever glaring over her shoulder at anybody who might take even a moment away from the two of them.
The situation of my senior year was as much different for me as Diamond’s was for her, though I hadn’t become popular, not exactly, not in the traditional sense of the word. I had become Ms. Anne Turner’s favorite student, and she had become somewhat of a friend to me. She insisted I call her Anne when it was just the two of us. Ms. Turner had appeared at Keystone High that year as the new theater teacher, and was in fact the entire theater department. I had signed up for theater because it seemed like an easy A, and I didn’t think I would be bothered so much by the other students in the class because they would mostly be freshmen who didn’t know my history of being taunted at school. But what really made Ms. Anne Turner stick out was the same thing that had made me stick out: She was a redhead – the first I’d ever seen in my life other than the one in the mirror – a bright, shiny copper-headed woman who didn’t seem the least bit ashamed of the way she looked, and who seemed to think I shouldn’t be either.
Anne talked me into involvement in the fall play, The Music Man, and after my “audition,” pointed out that I had a knack for theater. When she selected me for the part of Tommy Dijilas (the conman Professor Hill’s assistant band leader in the play), my knack became a passion. I involved myself in every part of the production, from set building to rehearsals to ticket selling, and of course the performances.
In the Spring, Anne selected me for the role of Radar in the production of M*A*S*H. I wasn’t very good in either show, but I enjoyed myself immensely. I think that was what people like Diamond were commenting on when they told me I was “great.”
Ms. Turner seized the moment of my sturdy ego to talk me into applying for college. I told her I wasn’t college material, but she said that with what I had going for me theatrically, and my “smarts to boot,” it would be a shame if I didn’t at least give college a chance. She even offered to help me apply for grants. So, before I knew what had come over me, I was filling out all kinds of paperwork, some of which required a certain amount of cooperation from my mother Mona, the request for which seemed to annoy her to no end. All that bitching and complaining backfired, though, because the more she told me I would never make anything of myself, the more firmly set became my resolve to try, if only to get out from under her tin roof.
Toward the end of school, a few of my theater geek freshmen friends and I signed up to build the sets for the senior prom, which entailed building lots of fake brick walls to go along with a Pink Floyd theme. That was the closest I got to the prom, but I did see Diamond and Cindy leaving the White’s trailer home together on the arms of the biggest troublemakers in school: Doyle Clement and Trey Marsh. The boys weren’t Diamond and Cindy’s boyfriends – Diamond and Cindy didn’t have boyfriends – they were just stand-ins so that the girls didn’t have to go to prom alone.
I watched from Brenda’s porch as the four of them in satiny dresses and color-coordinated tuxedos left Black Lake Mobile Court in Doyle’s noisy Camaro, passing a quart bottle of alcohol around the car before they even got on Route 21. I knew without having to wait up that something was going to happen that night.
The fact that I didn’t see Diamond all that weekend or on the school bus Monday morning was no surprise; she often spent whole weeks at Cindy’s house, or vice versa. But by the time the bus arrived at Keystone High the schoolyard was abuzz with all kinds of stories, most of them exaggerations, but all based on actual facts, all of them implicating Diamond and Cindy in the cast of characters.
At the prom, while they were outside smoking a cigarette, Doyle or Trey found a golf cart with the keys in it on the green near the community center. They talked Diamond and Cindy and another couple into going out with them for a joy ride. Doyle and Trey sat in the two front seats, the four others piled onto the back-facing seat, Cindy on Diamond’s lap. Their satiny dresses made staying in place difficult, especially as the driver ignored the concrete pathways of the golf course. At one point near a sand trap, Cindy slipped off of Diamond’s lap and hit her skull on concrete and was knocked unconscious.
The prom ended early for everyone that year as the ambulance siren quieted “Stairway to Heaven.” The stories going around on Monday morning were that they were all drunk (true), that the mysterious unnamed third couple had died (not true), that the remaining foursome of Doyle, Trey, Diamond and Cindy were all in the hospital (only Cindy was), and that there were massive amounts of nutmeg in their system (which was never substantiated, and no one could figure out where such a story would have come from in the first place).
Cindy’s skull was cracked, she had a concussion, and lost her sense of smell, but she was expected to recover. The unseen tragedy was that the accident ruined Cindy’s post-high school plans, which were to go to a culinary school in Tampa and become a chef. Diamond had become fond of saying she would be a rock star and would hire Cindy as her personal chef.
Also ruined were Diamond and Cindy’s summer plans to go to Las Vegas and see Cher live at Caesar’s Palace. They had been planning the trip for over a year; it had been the first bright thing to happen in Diamond’s life after Rich’s death. They had already paid for the plane tickets, the hotel, tickets to see Cher twice. But because of what happened at the prom, Cindy’s parents forbid her from going on a “pleasure trip,” and even expected her to help pay medical expenses.
Diamond was determined to still go to Vegas even if she had to go alone, but first she called me to see if I might be able to buy Cindy’s part of the trip. As luck would have it, I had just received a financial aid check for my freshman year at the University of Florida. I determined that seeing a live show starring someone like Cher would be a good use of some of my money and good experience for my theater major. Diamond made it clear that we wouldn’t be going as girlfriend and boyfriend – not that the thought would ever have even crossed my mind. It occurred to me too late that I probably could have bargained for a better price, but I was feeling extravagant when Diamond asked and figured the experience was completely worth the cost.
On a late Friday afternoon in July, Diamond and I stood just past the small bathroom in our hotel room side by side staring at the one bed, a double bed under a shiny polyester spread absorbing more light than reflecting it in its brown design. There were nine lightbulbs in the room and every one of them was on. Diamond dropped her suitcases and said, “Well!” and nothing more, an exhausted expression that became typical of her over the weekend, but there at the beginning of our vacation seemed to be caused by the turbulent plane ride or the two tiny bottles of rum she had downed with coke just before the turbulence began, or maybe both. Not wanting to be outdone I had had three rum and Cokes myself, surprised that we weren’t asked for ids. Neither of us had ever been on a plane before, so the day had started out with a nervous energy that led to our careless drinking habits; because we were going to a place some called Sin City, we got an early start on it. Buzzed and nauseous, our plans seemed less clear as we swayed over the one bed we were expected to share.
I put the American Touristers I had borrowed from Brenda down on either side of me and walked past the bed to the table on the far side of the room, to the cord behind the quarter-inch thick drapes. I leaned into the cord and the drapes parted, the late afternoon sun bounced off of a mirrored building across the street and sent a spotlight onto the bed like a sign from God.
she: Randy, no! Close the damn curtains!
me: Why?
she: ‘Cause I said so, that’s why.
Pause.
‘Cause it’s too bright. And this isn’t our room.
me: Whattya mean?
she: Close the curtains.
I did.
me: Whattya mean this ain’t our room?
she: There’s only one bed, Randy, can’t you see?
me: Aw, I won’t bite!
I was trying to make light of the situation. It didn’t work. Diamond huffed and left the room, left the door standing wide open. I pulled the drapes open again and stood there looking around. A fat man in a Hawaiian shirt walked past the doorway and looked in at me. A woman three steps behind him yelled, “George, don’t.” And then she walked by and paused to look in. I waved. She said, “Oh,” and kept walking.
I closed the door, turned out all of the lights then lay in bed on top of the bedspread to wait for Diamond. I fell asleep and woke to the sound of her key turning in the door. She came in, walked directly across to the drapes, pulled them closed, then realizing we were in total darkness, said, “Well!” and started snapping on lights left and right.
She put her small suitcase in the bathroom then her large one on top of the mirrored dresser. I could see her face reflected in the mirror, she was chewing the inside of her mouth like it was jerky.
me: Did you get it taken care of?
She didn’t respond.
Diamond—
she: I heard you.
me: Well?
she: Well! They’re gonna try to find you a cot.
me: Me?!
she: Yes, you.
She opened the suitcase, unpacked it into the three drawers on the right side of the dresser then put the empty case on the luggage rack across from the bathroom. She made noises in the bathroom for a few minutes then came out with an armful of colorful pouches and set them in different places around the room – on the dresser, the nightstand, the table. She pulled a chair out and sat at the table and started going through the pouch there, taking out makeup items and setting them up in front of her.
I sat up against the faux wicker headboard.
me: What are we gonna do tonight?
she: I’m gonna sleep.
me: Are you gonna gamble any?
she: I don’t know. Probably not. It’s a waste of money.
She opened a small mirror and applied lipstick.
me: It might be fun. For the experience.
she stopped mid-application: You go on and do whatever you want to, Randy. We don’t have to do everything together, you know? We’ve got the tickets for Cher tomorrow and Sunday night, but other than that, let’s just play it by ear, all right?
me: Like vacation – all right.
she chuckled: Yeah, vacation. I’ve never been on a real vacation before.
me: Yeah, me neither.
she: Just have fun, Randy, that’s all.
me: All right.
I stood up.
I’m gonna go downstairs and gamble some.
she: Right now?
me: Yeah, why not?
she: Well! I was going to go get something to eat, after they bring the cot.
me: Oh. You want me to wait for you?
she: No, you go on Randy. Stay in the lobby and I’ll find you.
me: Are you sure?
she: Yeah. Definitely. I’ll come find you.
me: Okay.
I went out, but turned back and caught the door before it latched.
Diamond?
she: Yeah?
me: I’m sorry I’m not Cindy.
she: What?
me: I mean I’m sorry you didn’t get to come to Las Vegas with Cindy.
she slumped back in her seat, her face softened: Oh, Randy, that’s so nice of you to say that. Thank you.
I took the elevator down to the lobby feeling warmed by our exchange, but when the elevator doors opened, Sin City took hold of me. It was red and gold carpet at my feet, crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, and gold columns of slot machines rising up all around me. There were roulette wheels and craps tables, too, but considering that I was only seventeen years old, I tended to think I was better suited to the slot machines (where less interaction with adults was required), so I bought a roll of nickels and worked my way through the labyrinth to the machines with the huge 5¢ signs hanging over them.
My first pull on a one-armed bandit seemed to produce a middle-aged genie woman in a short-short red and gold skirt offering to bring me a cocktail. I had been noticing drinks in hurricane glasses with lots of fruit, but didn’t want to bring attention to my age by asking what they were, so I stuck with rum and Coke for the time being. When she returned with my drink, the coin tray at the bottom of my slot machine already had an impressive amount of nickels in it. I scooped up a handful to pay for the cocktail asking how much it cost. The genie held up her hand, “Drinks are on the house.”
She returned shortly with a souvenir plastic cup for my nickels and I asked if all of the drinks are on the house or just the first one. She said, “All of ‘em, as long as you’re playing and as long as you’re behaving!” I promised her I would behave. She winked and said with a rather serious smile, “Oh, I know you will.” Every time I looked up, my partially drunk rum and Coke had been replaced with a full one. I don’t know how much I drank, I just know I didn’t really ever stop drinking.
I suddenly remembered Diamond up in the room when my plastic souvenir cup was so full of nickels that if I won anymore I wouldn’t have been able to carry them all. I wanted to show Diamond my winnings and stumbled upstairs leaving a trail of coins everywhere I went. Diamond wasn’t in the room. The drapes were open and night had come, though there was no shortage of light in the room. Dancing colorful lights spelled out flamingo and imperial palace, and across the street caesar’s palace with cher in big letters under it on the marquee. There was also no cot in the room.
I fretted about Diamond for about thirty seconds then went back downstairs, forgetting my cup of nickels on the dresser. Instead of going back up, I bought a roll of quarters and found the bigger, fancier slot machines with different themes and promises of bigger payouts. My new genie waitress on this side of the room looked exactly like the old one, but she was different. I boldly asked her for one of the drinks that “those people” were having with the fruit. She said it was an Imperial Cocktail and brought me a bottomless one right away. I moved from one slot machine to the next, from one casino to the next, outside into the hot dry air and into the next hotel and the next, each with their own signature cocktails, which all had fruit and umbrellas and tasted the same.
At dawn I found myself at the very edge of civilization, an empty parking lot with a mountain range behind it in the distance starting to glow a pinkish hue in the morning sun. I was sure I had been carrying around at least one cupful of quarters at some point in the night, maybe two, but at this ungodly hour I had nothing to show for all of my time, not even the plastic souvenir cup I had looked forward to taking back home with me.
A public bus whizzed past and the warm sandy gust of wind made my stomach wrench. I leaned into a concrete tree stand and puked; it was pink like the mountain range but not as chunky. I sat on the ground beneath the wispy little tree and cried; I didn’t feel particularly sad or even frustrated, just disoriented, and crying seemed to be the only thing I hadn’t done that night. It felt good and turned into drunken laughter.
The sun came up fast – or maybe I dozed. I jumped up at the raucous sound of four shirtless longhaired boys around my age skateboarding past on the sidewalk. They ignored me; I turned away from them, turned my back on the mountain range, headed toward the ticking lights, splashing toilet-blue water fountains, cigarette smoke and cotton candy oxygen.
I paused a moment in front of my hotel to test the contents of my stomach. My knees fidgeted below my waist like jelly; my feet just said, “Go! Go!” So I did. Inside the bright lobby that didn’t know time, the same ragged-looking people were sitting in front of slot machines pulling levers, hope just barely still registering on their faces.
Our hotel room was a dark tomb with the drapes drawn and all the lights off. I stood in the same place Diamond and I had stood earlier, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but instead I tipped over and hit my head on the clothes hanging rack; empty metal hangers clanged together in an upsetting chorus. Diamond sighed in the bed nearby and I decided I should sleep in the bathtub.
The next morning, or perhaps it was afternoon, Diamond knocked loud on the wall over the bathtub to tell me she was going to the pool and that I could get in the bed. I went back to sleep and woke later with a stiff neck and the idea to strip off my clothes without getting up to take a shower. The next time I awoke, I had made my way into the bed, and Diamond was kicking the mattress, saying that if I wanted to eat before the Cher show I had to get up right then.
The all-you-can-eat buffet in our hotel lobby restaurant cost three-ninety-five. The food was cheap and the alcohol was free, but I was broke. Fortunately I had the cupful of nickels in the room, which got me through day two.
Over our meal of exotic food from all over the world, Diamond told me about her Friday night in Vegas. She had gone barhopping at Caesar’s Palace and found the out-of-the-way bar where Cher went for a drink after her shows. She didn’t tell me how she came about this information, but I wasn’t the least bit skeptical; the possibility that I might see someone I admired so much across a bar, might even meet her, sustained me through the dazzling performance. I couldn’t wait to tell Ms. Anne Turner about the amazing sets, costumes and orchestra, which naturally put Keystone High’s theater department budget to shame. I had a hard time keeping up with everything that was going on onstage, the dancers, the backup singers, the special guests Bette Midler and Diana Ross who appeared unexpectedly, not to mention Cherilyn Sarkisian herself, with her multiple costume changes and all that talent.
Because I would later be having a drink in Cher’s bar, because I might even be talking to her in the flesh, I had an odd sense watching the show that I already knew Cher, that I was one of the few fans in the world who had become her friend. It wasn’t yet a fact, but I felt strongly that it would happen, that this would be the greatest treasure I would take back to Florida with me. This meeting would be pivotal in my life, inspiration for my artistic endeavors throughout eternity. This would be the weekend – the moment – I would look back on and attribute to all of my successes.
I took notes in my head about the performance so that my conversation with Cher would be intelligent, not the dorky ramblings of a seventeen-year-old hick from a trailerpark in Nowhere, Florida. I had no idea if Diamond was going through the same preparation as I was. I hoped she wasn’t; I hoped that my approach to the situation was unique. I didn’t want to even hint about what was going through my head for fear that Diamond or some random eavesdropper would steal my idea and make it better. I couldn’t let that happen!
Diamond and I sat in a back booth of the very empty out-of-the-way bar having drinks that we paid for – I was drinking a Coke which cost almost as much as the all-you-can-eat buffet. I worried aloud and repeatedly that we had made a bad choice, but Diamond seemed to think she knew better, seemed to think she knew how long it would take a superstar the likes of Cher to get off the stage, change and fix her makeup before she hit her favorite little after-performance bar. Diamond kept telling me to just relax.
Finally, people started trickling in. None of them was Cher, but a couple of them did look vaguely familiar. Diamond had her souvenir program she bought before the show hidden next to her and was naming the people she could as they came in, guitar player, backup singer, dancer… A very tall, skinny man who looked part Cuban/part Chinese to me was the first of the gathering group to break away from the bar and head to the back of the room where we were. He sat at a table with his back to the others and stared at Diamond and me. He was nursing a short, boring brown cocktail. He had a big mouth and a wide easy smile. Diamond whispered that I would never guess who he was, but she insisted I try. His initials were CJ, she hinted, and said I had commented on his performance during the show. I couldn’t guess, and she wouldn’t let me look at the souvenir program so I sat quietly and smiled back at him.
Diamond went to get herself another drink and I didn’t see her again that night. No sooner had she reached the bar and disappeared into the cluster of “Cher’s people” than the tall skinny man got up from his table and walked over to the booth where I was sitting.
he: Do you mind if I sit?
I had been sneaking glances at the program Diamond left behind in the booth. I pushed it to the floor.
me: Um…
he leaned toward me: I won’t bite.
I snickered.
I’ll take that as a yes.
He sat without invitation.
What’s your name?
me: …Randy?
he: You’re not sure about that?
me: No, I am. I’m Randy. Randy Reardon…Randy.
he: I’m CJ. CJ Sasha. But you can call me CJ.
My foot toyed with the program under the table.
What are you drinking, Randy?
me: Just Coke.
he: Oh! Are you a Christian?
me: What?
he: You don’t drink alcohol?
me: I do. Too much. I did last night, anyway. Too much.
he: Overdid it a little, huh?
me: Yeah, I overdid it.
he: You know what’s a good cure for a hangover?
me: No.
he: Sex.
me: Um…
he: Ooh, Randy, your face just turned as red as your hair!
I giggled nervously and looked around for Diamond.
Or your pants!
me: What?
he: Your hair’s orange and your pants are red. What are those, parachute pants?
me: Yeah!
he put a hand on my thigh: Ooh! Soft, and slippery!
me: Uh-huh.
he: Do you mind?
me: I don’t think so.
His face looked so familiar but I still couldn’t place it.
he: You know what else is good for a hangover?
me: I’m afraid to ask.
he laughed: You’re fast!
me: Not as fast as you.
he laughed again: Listen to me, Randy, I’m serious!
me: Okay…
he: Bitters.
me: What?
he: Bitters is good for a hangover. Bitters are good for a hangover. Bitters and soda.
me: What’s bitters?
he: Lord, child, I don’t know what it is. It’s bitters. That’s all I know. It’s a miracle cure.
me: I don’t feel all that bad.
he: Good, good.
He pulled his hand away.
Are you giving me the brush-off, Randy Reardon?
me: No. I don’t think so.
he: Good.
He replaced his hand and let it slide between my legs a little.
I’ve got some bitters up in my room, if you want some.
me: Oh. Okay.
he: And some other stuff, too, if you’d rather. Like coke and weed.
I tipped my near empty glass toward him.
me: I’ve got a Coke.
he: You are naïve!
me: What?
he: Have you never done cocaine before?
me: Oh! No… I just thought you meant—
he waved me silent: Would you like to?
me: Yeah. I think so.
he: Where’s your girlfriend. Does she have to come, too?
me: She’s not my girlfriend.
he: Well, she’s something.
me: She’s just a friend. A friend of a friend.
he: All right. Do you need to find her and tell her you’re running an errand?
I looked around and saw a lot of bobbing, laughing heads, none of them belonging to Diamond.
me: No, it’s okay. We don’t have to do everything together.
he: Good!
CJ scooted out of the booth and I followed suit. I paused for a moment thinking about Diamond’s $15 program, but CJ called after me so I obediently followed him, out of the bar, across a carpeted area, around a bank of elevators with gold doors that reflected us. CJ was a foot-and-a-half taller than me and looked even more familiar in the wavy surface of the metal, his face, those eyes, that smile...
We rode to the penthouse floor in silence. The elevator opened onto a sitting area with fancy couches and marble coffee tables which were just part of the elevator waiting area. CJ took a right.
he: This way.
I followed, awestruck.
me: Is this Cher’s floor?
he: Yeah, we’re all on this floor.
me: Wow…
he stopped: This is it.
CJ put a credit card into a slot over the fancy doorknob, a green light ignited and there was a click. He pushed the door open and entered. The room was all white, white carpet, white furniture, a wall of sheer white curtains on the rounded far wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The centerpiece of the room was a big round bed with a mosquito net draping down over it from the very high ceiling. As we walked in, CJ directed me toward the bed; he turned into the bathroom – white marble floors and sinks, a big oval bathtub – and disappeared in shadows.
I sat on the edge of the bed and saw around the corner from the bathroom a couch, chairs, a tv and stereo system, all white. In each corner of the room at the ceiling were small white speakers; there must have been a dozen speakers in the room. I considered briefly whether I should be sitting on the bed or in the living room area, but as if he was reading my mind, CJ appeared at that moment wearing white silk pajamas and a floor-length see-through white housecoat.
he: Perfect!
He carried a small, jeweled box. He sat next to me on the bed, opened the box to reveal a small mirror with a line of white powder and a rolled up bill inside. It was pretty obvious what I was supposed to do; I snorted the line and held my breath as long as I could. CJ jumped up and disappeared again only to return smelling of women’s perfume and holding a pink and white spray can.
he: Close your eyes.
me: What is it?
he: It’s wonderful!
I closed my eyes and he spritzed my face; it was cool and tingly and had no smell. I fell back on the bed laughing. CJ laughed too and ran across the room to the stereo, hit a couple of knobs and a woman’s thin voice in the middle of a jangly guitar riff filled the room:
I’m coming out.
I’m coming!
I’m coming out.
It was Diana Ross singing the same song she had sung in Cher’s show earlier that night.
me: I love her!
he: Oh, me, too! –I’m coming out…
A brass section added itself to the mix as CJ danced around the room in the brief instrumental introduction. The drums kicked in and CJ grabbed me by the hands, pulled me to my feet and incited me to sing and dance along.
us: I’m coming out,
I want the world to know,
Got to let it show…
CJ tossed me expertly onto the bed and continued singing, dancing and waving his arms around exactly like Diana Ross had. As I lay there propped up on my elbows, high on cocaine, singing giddily along, I decided that CJ must be Diana Ross’ choreographer.
he: There’s a new me coming out,
And I just have to live,
And I just wanna give,
I’m completely positive.
I was wrong. There was more to it than that. He stood over me, my red parachuted knees disappeared into the white silkiness of his pajamas; they glowed from within like a stain.
I think this time around
I am gonna do it
Like you never knew it,
Oh, I’ll make it through—
In a way, CJ became Diana Ross right before my eyes. Maybe it was because of the cocaine or the mystery mist in the pink and white can, but the resemblance was uncanny. Diana pushed me into the middle of the round bed and crawled halfway up me, flung my arms up and tossed my legs out, never stopping the performance.
The time has come for me
To break out of this shell.
I have to shout
That I am coming out!
She pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it into the middle of the room. Then she was back at the foot of the bed taking off my shoes in rhythm, tossing them away, and then my socks, one at a time, into the white abyss.
I’m coming out,
I want the world to know,
Got to let it show.
I’m coming!
Next, she unsnapped my pants and slid the zipper down, down, down, down…
I’ve got to show the world
All that I wanna be
And all my abilities,
There’s so much more to me—
She winked at me and slid my pants off.
Somehow I’ll have to make them
Just understand
I got it well in hand,
And, oh, how I’ve planned…
The song continued, but I don’t remember it. I don’t remember much after my Fruit of the Looms came off and I was lying there pink and erect, oozing like a stamen ready for pollination. Diana was a gigantic hummingbird, fluttering over me, her wings moving so fast they couldn’t be seen. She flew in close, touched her beak to me, sucked my nectar. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about what was happening, not because I wasn’t enjoying it, but rather because I didn’t want it to end too unexpectedly quickly. I tried not to think about Rich White (my only other sexual experience in life) and instead my thoughts landed on his sister Diamond, downstairs at the bar, probably hanging out with Cher by now.
I’m spreadin’ love,
There is no need to fear;
And I just feel so good
Every time I hear:
I’m coming out—
Diana Ross danced blithely out of her pajama bottoms as a bluesy trombone solo ensued. Her pajama top hung down over her thighs, covering The Secret. She climbed on top of me like a limber, strong little girl, her knobby brown knees hugging my sides, knobby knees she unceremoniously kept trying to cover with her sheer housecoat, her ass cheeks on my hip bones. She stuck out her long red tongue and licked across her palm then wiped it beneath the white silk.
Suddenly, I was inside of her, my pecker was inside Diana Ross’s cooter. There was rhythmic motion, gooshy, soft and delightful. I was fucking Diana Ross! I had never experienced anything like it. I opened my eyes to observe my proud work. She was sliding up and down on me, hands on my stomach, head tossed back.
A somewhat erect penis flopped out of the front of the pajama top, caught between two buttonholes. The sounds coming out of the open mouth sounded less now like a woman singing and more like a man moaning. My brain was swirling. I reached for the bouncing penis, but my arms were pinned to the bed. I tried to call out but couldn’t remember his name.
me, suddenly: I’m coming.
he: Yes! Yes, baby!
CJ pumped faster and milked me into his lower intestines, grabbing his penis at the same time and yanking until his whiteness drizzled out onto my stomach and pooled in my belly button.
He collapsed on top of me murmuring “baby” a half dozen times more until my penis shriveled up and squirted out of him. CJ nestled in and fell asleep before I realized what was happening. I tried to wake him, tried to slide out from under him, but he was heavier than he looked. I was trapped.
I lay under the drag queen wide awake and watched the wall of curtains start glowing a familiar Las Vegas pink. Finally, CJ rolled over in his sleep and released me. There were wrinkles and button marks on my torso as well a gray stain on the front of his pajamas. I poked around the room for all of my belongings – found one shoe in the oval bathtub – dressed and slipped out of the penthouse suite feeling almost as bad as I had twenty-four hours earlier.
Across the street and down the block I tiptoed into my hotel room, slipped quietly into the bathroom, closed and locked the door and showered, feeling simultaneously elated and chagrined. I snuck out of the bathroom in a towel and crept across the tan shag carpet to my suitcase in the far corner that I had never unpacked. When I stood up with underwear in hand I noticed that the bed was made and Diamond wasn’t in it. The clock on the nightstand said 6:25. I slipped my underwear on and got in bed.
At 11:03 I awoke to the sound of the running shower. I drifted in and out of sleep until Diamond came out of the bathroom. She dug through dresser drawers as I pretended to stay asleep. She went into the bathroom again and reemerged in yellow shorts and an unbuttoned flowery blouse knotted at the waist, her bright blue and green one-piece on under it. She bumped the bed next to me with her knee a couple of times to rouse me.
she: Hey, you gonna sleep all day?
me: Yeah…
she: Well! I’m going to the pool at Caesar’s if you want me.
me: Okay.
I went back to sleep and must have slept for five years. That was the next time I remember speaking to Diamond. She was living in North Texas going to music school. She had tracked me down in New York City because she was on the high school reunion committee. She talked about old times like we had been very close, touching briefly on the subjects of her brother Rich and the prom fiasco, but nothing about Sin City. Diamond told me she was a lesbian and was in a punk rock band with her girlfriend Digit. Several other people from Keystone High who had turned out homosexual were going to be at the reunion. She paused long enough to give me time for my own confession but I didn’t offer one.
Diamond sounded truly interested in seeing me at the class reunion. I told her I would like that, too but didn’t mean it. I promised to check my work schedule and get back to her, but never did. And I didn’t return any of the messages she left on my answering machine, each a little less adamant than the previous one. We never spoke again.