Between Boyfriends Read Online Free PDF

your last name, which I swear is something I’ve only done to two other guys before. That was a joke. It was actually three guys. That was another joke. Sorry, I guess it’s not good to joke when you don’t have an audience. Makes you feel like Carrot Top. That was another joke.”
    It was then that I remembered what Johnny Sanducci said when he broke up with me. “You’re a really sweet guy, but you should never try to tell a joke.” Taking a deeper breath I continued rambling on Frank’s voice mail.
    “Please note that if I could erase this message I would, but I can’t so this, sadly, will have to count as our first conversation,” I said, stifling a nervous laugh. “Please don’t use this message against me and give me a call when you can or as quickly as humanly possible—you see I do listen, even though I have a tendency to ramble when I’m nervous. Okay, that’s all, I’ll talk to you later.”
    I left my home number and my work number on his machine and was about to give him my cell phone number when I realized I had already blown it with Mister Devastatingly Handsome Regular Guy so it really didn’t matter if I gave him my Social Security number, he was never going to call and my love life, which had been so promising less than an hour ago, was now as infertile as Lorna’s character, Ramona, on ITNC.
    Two hours later, Frank still hadn’t called me. I stood in front of my bathroom mirror for about twenty minutes trying to figure out why I felt so handsome when Frank’s green eyes stared down at me and why I felt so ugly when I stared at myself. When I finally tore myself away from the mirror, I immediately picked up the phone and started to dial Frank’s number, then stopped. I started several more times, stopped several more times and once got all the way to the sixth digit before slamming the phone down in frustration because I realized if this relationship stood any chance of survival Frank had to return my first phone call. It was the least he could do.
    For the rest of the evening, I putzed around my apartment, cleaned then re-cleaned my mini-kitchen, and finally watched an I Dream of Jeannie episode on TV Land, which simply made me long for a simpler, more magical time. But no matter what I did, I kept wondering why Frank didn’t call me back. A few minutes before midnight, I finally turned off the television and accepted that my day would end like it had started, with me being duped by a man. As I dragged my taut-yet-single ass into bed and pulled the charcoal gray Calvin Klein comforter and complementary pale pink sheets up to my chin, I clung to one saving grace: my full-size bed is much smaller than Ely’s, so chances were good that at least one other gay man in New York City was feeling lonelier than I was tonight.

Chapter Three
    M onday mornings on the set of If Tomorrow Never Comes are like Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory before the tiny Oompa-Loompas stick their tiny chocolate time cards into the tiny chocolate time card machine and man their tiny chocolate stations. It’s all boring book scenes without the jaunty yet repetitive music. And like Mr. Wonka’s factory it can also be a dangerous place to be. Unless you learn to follow the instructions from the network brass, ignore the phone calls from every actor’s agent, and stay far, far away from the show’s resident diva.
    Miss Loretta Larson hates every morning, afternoon, and evening spent in fictional Wonderland, but she hates Monday mornings the most. Mainly because she spent Saturday and Sunday in a drunken stupor trying to forget that on Monday morning she once again has to take up residence as Regina O’Reilly, the grande dame of Wonderland. Loretta is a bitter, angry, lonely actress, but the fans adore her so even though she is also a bad actress, she’s one lucky lush. For the past twenty-eight years Loretta Larson has repeated the same facial expressions, vocal inflections, and cosmetic injections, yet somehow