Coming Out

By Seven Slade

A long time ago, on a playground far, far away, an awkward boy with two mothers and a penchant for pink shirts shook a tough girl's hand over the rattled frame of a deposed playground bully.

Tamsyn promised to be Rodrigo's bodyguard if he'd draw her pictures of girls wearing superhero capes. Rodrigo promised to be Tamsyn's buddy if she'd let him braid her hair.

A deal, struck. A partnership, forged. And the timid gay boy and the fearless straight girl became inseparable.

Now college graduation looms, and Rodrigo questions his place in the world. He has no boyfriend. No job. And a sudden—arousing—fascination with the female body. Correction: with Tamsyn's body.

Then one night, a golden ticket from a broken piñata introduces him to the man he's wanted for years. Now he's torn between pursuing these strange feelings for Tamsyn or following the guy of his dreams.

Best friends forever.

If love doesn't break them up first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Howling Mad Press
• Release date: Dec 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9780986146534

Book preview

The Struggle Is Real

[Tamsyn]

All the women stare at Rodrigo as we make our way through the crowd. They always do. He’s hotter than a steel bridge in a Florida heat wave.

When the nearest bobblehead sees who his hand is attached to, she pops off an Oh-my-goddess-Becky-did-you-see-her-ugly-pants-and-skanky-hair-GROSS! sneer that lands next to my feet and promptly gets stepped on and ground into the sticky floor at Chez Slattery like a resident roach.

He’s gay, yanno, I stage whisper to her over the music. Rodrigo doesn’t notice. He’s too busy getting his eyes full of Simon Sex’s tattooed abs. The stars blinding him crush me.

I could turn him, the bimbo says. She’s a cute blond number. I bet her closet is connected to that ridiculously overpriced clothing store downtown via secret passageway.

Good luck with that, I reply. I’ve been trying for fourteen years, eight months, and four days, but who’s counting?

Ah, get over yourself, Tamsyn. Gay ain’t never gonna be straight. You got Chris. Shut the fuck up and let Rodrigo go once and for all.

The blonde swings her hips in an overt arc and dances toward him, Arson Patrol’s catchy beats choreographing her back end. When she closes, she gyrates on his left, arms waving wildly over her head to the music. He drops my hand and claps at the end of the song, blind to the women salivating on either side.

How’s everyone doing tonight? Simon shouts a little breathlessly.

Just terrible, thanks, I reply under the swell of screams and whistles. Rodrigo doesn’t hear me. He only hears Simon.

Hey there, the bimbo yells in a high-pitched, nasally voice near Rodrigo’s ear. She does an upper body shimmy thing, flashing her tits at his shoulder.

It’s comical how oblivious he is to women. They throw themselves at him every time we go out, and he never notices.

Y’all look like you’re hungry for some Arson Patrol candy, Simon growls.

Screams deafen. The human sea undulates, gyrates, and suffocates under their hero’s sharp stare. For a musician, this guy is one of the most unimaginative glops of ungulate shit ever to grace the stage at Chez Slattery. What do these people see in him? I mean, besides the great hair, impressive tattoos, searing sex appeal, and rock-star swagger?

A stagehand darts over to Simon, dragging an oversized, torpedo-shaped ornament attached to a fishing pole behind him. Here we go. The light’s on Simon’s face, so I can’t see what the piñata du jour is yet. He tests the strength of the line and rests the giant paper bauble on the stage as he talks.

If you’ve never been to one of our shows, we do this special thing when we play our favorite song, ‘Piñata.’ He shifts weight between his Vans and pushes a stray lock of sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. The girls swoon. Rodrigo’s probably about to piss himself.

See, it’s a tune about getting beat up by things you care about and falling apart, and how sometimes you gotta break into lots of tiny pieces in order to put yourself back together.

Your metaphor for life is positively earth-shattering, genius, I mumble. Then louder, Give this man a Grammy! The idiots around me applaud my nomination.

I need a smoke.

Or another drink.

Or a fight.

Clenching my fists, I scan the room for the redneck I almost threw down with earlier, but there’s no sign of him, damn it. Maybe he’s blowing his buddy in the bathroom.

So, we bring out a real piñata, Simon continues, and we hold it out for y’all to bust. The goodies inside represent what we become when we take stock of our lives and make changes to become better. And there’s also a golden ticket in there.

Whistles shriek from all round. I resist the urge to plug my ears.

Whoever gets the ticket comes backstage after the show where we pamper you with beer and peanuts. Simon’s a walking erection. With a guitar. And women trailing behind him like beer cans on a Just Married mobile.

Yeah, I’ve spotted his package more than once, and I wasn’t even looking for it. Hard not to notice an elephant trunk like that when it’s reaching out to you. Hope you don’t mind me imposing, miss, but would you fancy picking me some of those stray fronds from your bush? I’m positively famished. Poke-poke. Prod-prod. I shiver at the thought and subconsciously cover my lady business.

Rodrigo, however, has never sported wood that I’ve seen. He’s a perfect gentleman despite the stories he’s told me about his wide and varied male conquests.

If I only had a dick …

I stomp my boot to remind myself I’m with someone. -Ish.

The drummer ticks off a count of four with his sticks, and Simon executes a rock star leap. Here we go!

The ancient stone walls vibrate, the floors creak, and music ignites Chez Slattery. Simon slings his guitar to the side and lets his bandmate Charlie man the strings section while he reels in the ladies—and Rodrigo—with tonight’s piñata, a charming papier-mâché rainbow-colored shark swimming at the end of his pole.

Rodrigo turns toward me. He flashes every one of his teeth in an exaggerated grin that would give a dentist nightmares. GAY! he mouths. HE’S SO GAY!

I close my eyes and shake my head. If this gay rainbow shark piñata isn’t fate telling me it’s time to move on, I’ll be a baboon’s shiny red asshole. Okay, universe. I hear ya.

I know what you’re thinking. Take life by the balls and jump his ass! But, it’s not that simple. Imagine your best friend in the whole world. The one you spend more time with than anyone else. The one you share your deepest, darkest secrets with. The one you rely on when nobody else pulls through for you.

Now imagine jumping his or her bones. See the problem? Too much damn history. Too much at risk if he doesn’t feel the same. And I care for him too much to lose our friendship to something as stupid as love.

Simon removes the mic from its stand and paces across the stage proudly wielding his catch, dipping and lifting the pole in a taunt that drives the girls wild. The queer shark swims above the audience, hunting for a meal. Girls beg their taller boyfriends to bat at the tail and fins. Carried away by the crowd, Rodrigo bounces up and down, but in his desperation to land a punch on the shark’s side, he trips and stumbles off-kilter, falling into a girl next to him.

The rainbow scales shimmy on a collision course with … me.

No, I tell the shark, swatting it away. Hell, no. I will not be a part of your bullshit. I do not want your lousy backstage pass. I only want you to leave me and my friend alone. I turn left and duck while a dozen appendages bob near my face.

Simon! a chick screeches.

I love you so much! Give it to me! a raspy-voiced teen begs.

I want to have your babies! an older girl cries, cupping her tits and hefting them at Simon for apparent inspection.

I gotta find Rodrigo and tell him I’m leaving. This is so dumb, and I have to be up early for work. The music swells too loudly, drowning out my calls to him. The fish shifts direction and takes a beating from a pack of Delta Zetas on a mission to crush Simon’s balls into sorority submission. Let them have him.

Rodrigo! I bark, dodging fangirls and drunks. Where the shit did he go?

I spot familiar tan forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a pale purple dress shirt, and clench my thighs in a death grip. God, those rippled tennis arms own me. If he knew what his body did to mine, he’d unfriend me in an instant.

He’s holding something up toward the stage, grinning from ear to ear. I shake out of my reverie. What the hell is he doing?

His cell phone is turned to landscape aspect. He’s snapping pictures of the piñata. So he can paint it, I’ll wager. The fucking rainbow shark piñata will be his next adventure in watercolors, which means I won’t see him for a week.

Art is his passion, bitch. It makes him happy. Let him stew in it.

Of course I will. I love him.

As a friend. -Ish.

Simon croons indecipherable words into the microphone, swinging the shark this way and that, teasing girls who leak desperation from their pores like oil from a damaged engine. Rodrigo lowers his phone and turns to the guy urgently tapping his shoulder from behind.

Fuck me. It’s the redneck. The girl Rodrigo bumped into earlier stands beside him. The asshole’s face reddens as he shouts and thrusts a finger in Rodrigo’s face.

Looks like I’ll get my fight after all. Shaking out my arms and rolling my shoulders, I start toward them.

The shark’s open mouth descends upon my face, scaring the shit out of me. It’s trying to eat me! I punch it once, twice, three times in a frenzy to get the damn thing out of my way. On the third hit, the piñata’s side bursts open, spilling its guts. Candy, trinkets, and rubber jewelry drop like freshly squirted fish eggs over the heads beneath it.

The human barracudas descend, pushing and shoving into a deadly convergence of tanking IQs and raging libidos. I ignore them and wade through the tide of dumbfuckery toward my friend trapped by the real shark.

I done told you once to watch what yer doin’, queer, the redneck slurs. You stepped on my girl’s foot again. I ain’t havin’ that.

I’m sorry. Rodrigo speaks in a soothing voice, but it seems to have the opposite effect on quelling the guy’s rage. The dude thunders threateningly toward him. I swear, it was an accident, Rodrigo protests. I didn’t realize she was right on me.

Don’t flatter yourself. If you weren’t so busy eye-ballin’ the singer up there, the redneck awkwardly points toward Simon, who’s now jerking the song off to its climax via the microphone stand, you’da paid better attention, princess.

Rodrigo’s hands fly up in a conciliatory gesture. He faces the girl. Are you okay? She flaps her lashes coyly at him as he pats her arm in a totally nonsexual way. Oh, brother. Another one bites the dust.

You again, I bellow now that I’m close enough to be heard. I thought we settled our disagreement about the nature of my friend’s sexuality earlier, but I see you need a refresher course in the social grace department.

I don’t give him time to reply. I straight up deck the fucker.

The crowd parts, and a circle forms around us. The man stumbles backward into his girl like a bowling pin trapped with nowhere to run from my lucky strike. They barely manage to keep vertical. I hop on the balls of my feet, alternating left and right, eager for him to come at me. My knuckles hurt like a bitch, but the pain and the adrenaline rush I get from cutting loose on dickweed homophobes is worth it.

He wipes his mouth and stretches to his full height. I angle my chin upward and flash him my best I triple-dog-dare-you grin.

Trash Bag’s got a helluva right hook. But so do I, he brags to his girlfriend, who’s hiding behind Rodrigo. He hauls his thick arm like a cocked gun, and lets the trigger rip.

Too bad he’s out of ammo.

The dude’s drunker than a frat boy the night before finals. I easily duck his wild swing, but the guy behind me doesn’t.

THUNK!

The wall of muscle the redneck clobbered in the head turns around. Easily topping six-and-a-half feet, this guy even scares me. I’m pretty sure I saw him wearing the number 21 at practice when I drove past the university football field the other day. He swipes at his neck as if a mosquito bit him and flexes his biceps. This boy’s mama probably worked two extra jobs while he was growing up just so she’d have enough money to feed him.

The redneck cradles his busted fist and joins the cowering girlfriend in a heap of quivering quavers. Footballer closes with the intensity only a star defensive back can project.

We have liftoff.

Oh, hell no. Rodrigo scowls at me and dives into the crowd. I make like a meerkat and burrow through a maze of swaying arms and legs until I catch up to him. A commotion rises behind me, but I don’t dare look. Sounds like the redneck got what he came for, just from the wrong person. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer prick.

Rodrigo, wait, I holler as another song cranks up.

He stops. Doesn’t turn around. His shoulders rise sharply, hold the pose, and then release in a rush. I inch toward him, swatting at the human swarm closing around me. When I reach him, he cocks his head to the side. His pinched lips retreat into the brown scrub surrounding his mouth. It’s all I can do to keep my tits from colliding with his chest. Damn hearts always pulling parts of us closer while they drive other parts away.

I know, I say. I’m sorry. It’s just—

He motions anxiously between us. Rodrigo has always talked clearly with his expressive, artist’s hands. Right now, they’re saying he’s pissed at me. With good reason.

It’s just, you can’t always be my knight in shining armor, Joan of Arc, he finishes for me.

Not exactly following my script, though. I wish I could yell, Cut! and do another take.

I’m not helpless. He’s on a roll now. Much as I’m totally flattered by your willingness to defend me, we’re not kids anymore. I can handle myself.

I embarrass you.

He doesn’t reply, just stares at me through a pair of intense, bronze laser beams fueled by pity. How many times have I been sliced open by those eyes?

I sigh and angle my chin downward. I rub the red-stained cracks in my knuckles, straighten the digits, and make a fist. Trash pick up is gonna be fun tomorrow. I’ll definitely need extra Band-Aids. For my ego, not my fingers.

Okay. No more fights, I concede. I’ll just stand by in silence until I can’t take any more, like I’ve been doing since we were seven, and then walk away. Yeah. Right.

My palms itch. My jaw aches. My ears burn.

Thank you.

It feels like we came to an uncontested divorce settlement, ending a fifteen-year love affair without so much as squabble. The cat’s yours; I get the dog. Here’s your wedding ring. No, you keep it. Gee, thanks, Rodrigo. No, thank you, Tamsyn.

A frat boy passes us, balancing two drinks one-handed and not watching where he’s going. He spins to talk to his friend and sloshes pink margarita down the back of my pants. I can’t even get mad at the guy with Rodrigo watching my every move, so I bite my tongue.

Simon interrupts our awkward moment with a long crescendo to the top of the song’s bridge and falls into the key change with an accompanying stage dive. Rodrigo’s eyes light up. Within the confines of my fried brain, I’m slow clapping for the singer’s impeccable use of improvised tools and timing.

You should go and try to grab his butt or something, I tease, jabbing my hitchhiker’s thumb in Simon’s direction. Maybe kidnap him. I doubt his bandmates would notice. It’s not like he does anything up there.

The tension in Rodrigo’s face ebbs in a quick flush. He hesitates.

Go on. I nod toward the stage.

He brushes my wrist and leans in. In the second he hovers over me, time stops. Kiss me, Rodrigo, I beg. Kiss me and haul me over your shoulder and drag me out of here to a dark alley and slam me against the wall and bang me until I scream.

I hold my breath.

His lips fall to my cheek. You’re the best, Syn. Be back in a flash.

Every time he calls me Syn, my ovaries jerk like they’re hacking up a clutch of eggs storming my fallopian tubes, each one vying for the starting position in the spermatozoa receiving line. I exhale my disappointment.

He melts into the fan-storm. I hurl a halfhearted Have fun, after him. The music and noise absorb the words.

Checking out my bloody knuckles once more, I head to the bathroom to clean my liquor-dashed pants and wash my hands—God knows where the redneck asshole’s beard has been. I use plenty of soap and sing the Happy Birthday song in my head to ensure I’ve scrubbed long enough. After sloughing the excess water and drying off, I look down at myself.

I dressed up tonight, hoping Rodrigo would find me more interesting than Simon for once, but Victoria’s Secret failed me. That bitch owes me sixty bucks for false advertising. I reach inside the neckline of my T-shirt and tug the fancy bra straps, yanking my boobs up like I’m reeling in a whopper of a fish.

It’s not Ms. Secret’s fault. No man can resist tatas like these. No straight man, at least. But, Rodrigo is as far from straight as a circle is from a square. Rounded finesse and sharp angles simply do not fit together. Whoever made up that bullshit about opposites attracting was a liar.

I brace against the counter and lean forward to give myself a pep talk in the mirror. You’re beautiful, Tamsyn, with or without the expensive bra. Simon and his goddamn rainbow shark can suck it. Rodrigo doesn’t know what he’s missing. He’ll be sorry he lost the opportunity of a lifetime one day. I make a pair of guns with my fingers and thumbs and wink at myself.

I grab some paper towels to sop up the mess on my ass. When I turn to dab, a shock of gold snags my attention. Sticking out from the crawlspace between my butt and the edge of my open pocket is a thin, laminated strip of paper. What the hell? I pluck it and stare open-mouthed at the words. I read them twice to be sure I haven’t completely lost my shit.

This ticket grants the bearer backstage access to hang out with the members of Arson Patrol on April 7, 2016, at Chez Slattery in Middle, North Carolina.

I lower my hand and shake my head. Son of a sweaty-balled bitch.

Happy Graduation to Me

[Rodrigo]

Rodrigo, I gotta fly. It’s an early day for me tomorrow, and I’m exhausted. Tamsyn lays a hand on my back, but it doesn’t linger the way it usually does, and there’s no warmth behind it. She always hugs me goodbye, but not tonight. Maybe she’s mad at me for telling her to lay off the superhero routine, which I now feel bad about.

The show’s only halfway done, I whine, nodding to the stage where colorful lights dance over guitars and tattoos. Come on. Stay a bit longer.

I’m scattered, covered, and smothered. Plus, I gotta make a call before it gets too late.

I snap my head up. Jealousy sucker punches me out of nowhere. Who are you calling at eleven o’clock? All of her friends from work are in bed by now.

She blows me off with a dismissive wave. Nobody. Just a friend I promised I’d check in with tonight.

I know that look. You’re seeing someone. A forced smile sprouts on my lips as a weed takes root in my stomach.

No, I’m not. She avoids my gaze. The Slim Jim comes down from behind her ear. She carefully unwraps the meat stick, shoves the plastic into her pocket, and gnaws. Oh, this is serious. The weed-roots wriggle deeper, sucking the life from my cells.

Yes, you are. Who is he? A flare of jealously ups the pitch of my voice.

Willie startles awake. Everything all right, mate?

I’m happy for her. I am. It’s just, when she’s dating someone, it takes time away from us.

I’ll call you tomorrow after work, she deflects. We can make plans for this weekend, and you can tell me about Simon then.

There won’t be anything to tell. Speaking of, I never saw which one of those lucky bitches found the golden ticket. Did you? I scan the crowd for clues as to who might have it. I’d never stoop so low as to steal, but I’ve been told I can sweet-talk the furry long johns off a grumpy polar bear in the throes of a lean season.

"You did," she says.

I did what?

You found the ticket.

What the hell are you talking about? She can’t mean what I think she means. Assuming I even know what she means. I don’t know what I mean.

She takes my wrist and slips her free hand into a pocket of her cargoes. A tiny goldenrod slip of paper floats like a falling leaf into my palm. Happy early graduation, buddy. She slaps my shoulder and squeezes.

My breath catches.

No. Fucking. WAY! I squeal in a manner most uncharacteristic of a twenty-two-year-old man.

She dons a quick smile and turns toward the exit.

Tamsyn Celeste Archer, you come here right this second and hug my neck! I demand. She pauses for a couple beats, swings my way, and body-nudges me the way guys do in locker rooms after winning a game. Except she has boobs. I ease my hips away so she doesn’t notice that I have a penis that’s kind of happy to be so close. Damn you, Willie.

Thank you. I pinch the paper between thumbs and forefingers of both hands and press it to my chest. For this. For everything. I owe you big time.

She snorts. I’ll put it on your tab. Now get your ass backstage before the king changes his mind about entertaining at court. And Rodrigo?

Yeah?

Enjoy yourself. With that, she leaves me for the door.

I love you, Tamsyn! I yell after her, waving the ticket she can’t see.

Without turning around, she throws a hand up and clears the threshold. Then she’s gone.

But Willie’s not.

Wait a minute. Once again, she managed to avoid inquiries about her new friend by dodging my bullets and firing back Simon-flavored ones. Herself is an expert at evasion tactics. Maybe she’ll let this new guy in, and he’ll find a way to tame her. God knows, many before him have tried and failed miserably.

Although, that’s what worries me. Since her dad’s accident, she’s hardened and shut herself off, even from me in some ways. The guys she dates don’t get her like I do. They don’t see the kind, intelligent woman beneath the muscles and sanitation uniform. As much as she protects me from bullies, I protect her from assholes and bad choices by being her sounding board. If I’d been born straight, we’d have made an awesome couple.

But you’re not straight. Stop talking nonsense, Willie advises and curls up for a nap.

I wistfully face the stage where Simon and his friends are completing their mission to steal their fans’ hearts, one song at a time. Tucking the ticket safely into my front pocket, I wrestle the crowd to reclaim my previous position at Simon’s feet and try to enjoy the view for the rest of the show, but Tamsyn’s sudden departure weighs on me.

Twenty minutes later, I battle upstream against the exit-flowing human current to the beefcake guarding the stage exit and present the ticket. The guy flips me a strange look, but steps out of the way and gestures toward the darkened hallway behind him.

This is it. I stand before the entrance to the cave of the unknown. Simon Sex lurks somewhere beyond, waiting to make my acquaintance. Smoothing my shirt and hair, I take the first step. Hesitate. Someone seems to have snuck inside my head and dumped all of the bravado from earlier into the Catawba River.

After years of wanting him, why am I suddenly so afraid to meet Simon? If Tamsyn were here, she’d drag me by the scruff and deposit me unceremoniously into his lap.

Damn, I need her. I can’t do this without her.

I pull out my phone and dial her. The call goes directly to voicemail. I frown and text: I’m going in. Nervous as hell. Wish you were here. She’ll reply with a brilliant, ball-busting one-liner to push me onward. Assuming she replies at all.

The speed at which Tamsyn returns texts is directly proportional to Herself’s mood, which is questionable tonight. Since she doesn’t answer right away, I assume her reply isn’t forthcoming. Damn it.

I straighten my sleeves and reroll them. Inhale a deep breath and let it out slowly. I can do this.

Hey, did you win the ticket? a guy asks. I think he’s Arson Patrol’s manager.

I startle and laugh uneasily, holding up the paper. Heat rises in my cheeks. Yeah. Um, where do I go?

Come on. He leads me inside and makes a right into a small room packed to capacity. There was only one golden ticket. Who are all these people?

What’s your name? the manager says.

Uh, Rodrigo Vega-Goldstein.

Jewish?

And Mexican.

That’s quite a combo. I’ll bet the holidays are fun at your house.

Yeah. He has no idea.

He walks me over to a corner, and the wall of bodies parts before him like Moses at the Red Sea. Hey, guys, I found your ticket winner. Meet Rodrigo.

My pulse thuds against my eardrums. Simon stands, pauses to take me in, and offers his hand with a slow drawl of a smile. How’s it going, man?

Sweet Jesus, his eyes! I was pretty sure they were blue, but I’ve never seen them up close. This is the kind of blue that almost looks unnatural, but there are no telltale contact lens rims around the irises. Bright cerulean. Only nature can engineer colors that vivid.

I won’t even get into the sweat-drenched hair peeking out from a knit beanie, the chiseled