#scenebreak
Boyfriend and I walked into the garage. We shoved all the boxes to the edges and stacked them higher than I could have done by myself. Dude was built like an ox.
I scrolled through my playlists and hooked the player to the speakers. “After careful consideration,” I said in my best gay-but-not-nellie voice, “I believe tah-ngo is the wrong choice.” I turned and held up one hand to silence him.
Yeah, he wasn’t about to protest the way I’d assumed. Okay.
“While learning a dance is inspired logic, tah-ngo is the wrong dance for you.”
His enormous brow furrowed. “But it’s her thing.”
“Exactly the problem, bro. Latina women want men to be strong. . . in charge. No offence, but you’ll never be better than her at tah-ngo. You’ll never come close. If you want to impress her with your masculine. . . machismo. You need salsa.” I hit play and the room filled with salsa. “It’s muy caliente and speaks to her Latina heritage, but you can be the man in charge.”
For the record, Katy hated salsa.
She also hated macho.
“Yeah?” he asked. “In charge of Katy?”
“Of course,” I forced myself to throw an arm around him all cozy-like. “She wants a man who’s a real man.”
“Yeah?”
“Strong. Forceful. Sexy. It’s what all Latina girls want.”
“Really?”
I patted his shoulder. “Really.” I moved through a few salsa moves, going for Latin macho not Swishing with the Stars. “With tah-ngo, she’ll always be in charge. With salsa, she’ll be putty in your hands.”
I swear he shivered. “Yeah?” Drool dribbled from his mouth. “Putty?”
I patted him again and moved away. “Putty.”
Grinning, he looked around the garage. He jabbed a meaty thumb at the heavy bag. “Whazzup wit dat, yo?”
What was up with the way he talked? Was he trying to be “street” or something?
“My dad’s a boxing coach. . . was a boxing coach.”
Another big grin. “Awesome. That is so post-queer.”
Okay, I almost popped him again. “What the fuck?”
Again the hands out in submission. “Dude, what?”
“Post-queer? Is that like ex-gay?”
He shook his head with the most confusion I’d seen on his face to date, and that was saying a hell of a lot. “Post-queer as in who gives a shit who you screw anymore, let’s just get on with life.” He shrugged. “It’s a small town but we have, like, a huge number of gay kids in school.” A shadow crossed his face. “Some of them say it’s the water fountain on the third floor.” He shook it off. “They all talk about how everything is post-queer, like lesbian supermodels and gay rugby players. Like all the stereotypes just don’t matter now.” He gestured at the heavy bag as if it were a game show prize. “Like a gay boxing coach is super awesome.” His eyes lit up. “Hey, I would totally pay him for lessons.”
Holy—wait for it—fuck. This Dumass, football-playing dude had just out-liberaled me. I couldn’t even speak for a minute. I mean, he was the enemy, right? I had to teach him a lesson and prove to Katy just how much more “awesome” I was.
Right?
Without a word, I started moving to the music, demonstrating the basic.
He floundered along beside me.
After a couple of minutes, I gave up and stopped. “Do you even like to dance?”
He shrugged sheepishly.
“Why are you on the crew?”
“I thought I was the stupid one.”
This big ox wanted boxing lessons from my gay dad, and if there was any way to talk Dad into it, those simple lessons would do more to help him than any midnight gab fest with me. Shitstix.
Maybe his problem was more the teacher than the student. Katy took the moves I did and broke them down so the crew could learn them. Could I do that?
I turned off the music and stood next to Boyfriend, taking his elbow. I shook my left foot. “Left foot.”
He shook his foot.
“It’s like the hokey-pokey. You put your left foot in.”
We stepped forward on our left feet.
“You put your right foot out.”
We stepped back on our right feet.
“You put your left foot in. You put your right foot out.”
He repeated my rhythm. “Left foot in. Right foot out.”
I played the music and took him into normal dance position. “Left foot in. Right foot out.”
We danced the basic for half the song and he gave me a huge grin. “And you do the hokey-pokey and you shake it all about.”
And, yes, he shook it all about. Foot-f-ing-loose, eat your heart out.
After an hour, we were sweaty, and I was tired. He’d learned three moves. Teaching Katy’s way was hard.
“Break for drinks,” I said.
“Beers?”
I stopped in the doorway that led to the kitchen. “Isn’t it a little early for beer?”
He shrugged. “Not in China.”
Wow. Compared to him, I was gay.
Standing in the kitchen with the fridge open I checked my options. What the hell. I grabbed a couple of Shiners and slammed the door. As I walked into the garage, he was still counting to himself. “You put your left foot in. You put your right foot out.”
I took a slug of beer.
He looked up, saw me watching and grinned like a little kid whose dad caught him riding a bike by himself for the first time. Big thumbs up. “Left foot in. Right foot out.”
I handed him a beer. “Corey?”
He deflated. “What happened to Boyfriend?”
“I can’t call you Boyfriend.”
“Everyone calls me Boyfriend.”
The wheels on the bus go round and round.
“If I call you Boyfriend and a hot guy hears me, I might lose my chance with him.”
Realization dawned. “Oh right!” Big smile. “Corey’s my real name, anyway.”
I was a douchebag. I was still a douchebag.
This poor guy was working his ass off to impress Katy, and I hadn’t decided whether I was going to stay in town or ride off to the competition circuit with my bitch of an ex. What right did I have to sabotage his plans?
“Bro, why are you working so hard to keep her?”
“She’s amazing.”
“Okay, she’s hot, I get that, but—”
“No, no, no.” He shook his head a lot and held my shoulder with a meaty hand. After an hour of dancing with the guy, it didn’t bother me, anymore. “Yeah, she’s hot, but look at all this.” He struck a pose. “I can get hot any day of the week.”
He sat on a box. “Katy’s smart. She’s smarter than me.” He smiled. “She’s smarter than you, too. And that is ho-o-ot.” He shook a hand as if he’d burned it. “I know I’m not smart, Foxtrot. I know if I lose Katy I’ll date a bunch of really hot stupid chicks, but I’ll never find another Katy. Not in this lifetime.” He winked at me. “I may be dumb. . . but I’m not stupid.”
He rose and started moving through the basic. “Left foot in. Right foot out. Left foot in. Right foot out.”
He looked at me with that big, goofy grin. “What else you got?”
His cell rang. Katy’s ring tone was a tango.
His grin exploded across his face in a giant goofy mess. “Katy-pop!” The smile slid off so fast I’m surprised he didn’t get whiplash. “Sorry, Katy. Guess what—”
I chuckled. She obviously didn’t approve of his pet name.
His eyes narrowed and he met my gaze. “What happened?”
He hit speaker so I could hear her voice.
“Someone trashed my fucking car.”