Between Boyfriends Read Online Free PDF Page B

manages to keep the fans of ITNC entertained with her performance and obsessed with her persona. They worship at her 100-percent-proof, liver-unfriendly altar and, thus, everyone else who works with Loretta worships her as well.
    “Loretta!” I exclaimed, clutching my Venti skim, extra-hot, light-whipped peppermint mocha (which I will refer to henceforth as my Starbucks Usual). “Love the poncho.”
    “Some fuckin’ Mexican immigrant wanted to charge me fifty bucks for it on the Upper East Side,” she exclaimed in her trademark raspy voice. “I said, ‘You’re not even allowed on the Upper East Side!’ I tossed him a twenty and told him to give me the poncho or I was going to call INS.”
    “Damn those leaky borders,” I replied.
    Before I could tell her how the yellow angora of the poncho almost perfectly matched the yellow jaundice of her skin, the Loretta everyone knew, hated, and fawned over announced her arrival in typical Monday morning fashion.
    “People!” she shouted very much like the male passengers on the Titanic when they were told there really were no extra life jackets. “Where’s my fucking coffee?!”
    Experience had taught me that when Loretta screeched, you had to get out of the way or risk being trampled by the throng of interns, entry-level producers, personal assistants, and nervous executives who inevitably responded to her banshee cry the way the Oompa-Loompas responded to Mr. Wonka’s piccolo whistles. (Which I always believed was a nod to Captain Von Trapp’s ingenuous way of calling his children to order before Maria swooped in from the mountains and offered the captain two new favorite things to wrap his lips around.) My adrenaline kicked in and I, along with my trusty Starbucks Usual, sought cover in the first office I could find, which luckily was the site of the production meeting I was almost late for.
    “Steven!” cried Laraby Simmonson, my boss and a closeted homosexual.
    To be honest, no one knows if Laraby really is gay, but he is definitely gay-ish. And all that’s needed to start a rumor about the sexual status of a single man working in the soap opera industry is the ish part. Personally, I never understood the fascination about Laraby’s sexual preference because he looked like a cross between Dick Cheney and Jeff Stryker. Even if he did possess an incredibly long, thick and mouthwatering dick, he was also fifty-something, short, balding, pasty, and when he wasn’t being arrogant he was being charming in order to persuade you to believe in or do something you knew in your gut was false and evil. But in defense of all the “Is he or isn’t he?” rumors, Laraby is the only person I know who can transfeminate from frat boy to sissy queen in three seconds flat. And transfemination usually occurred on Monday mornings as a tonic to thwart Loretta’s hungover harangues.
    “Dude!” Laraby shouted like my college dorm buddy. “We went up one-tenth of a point in the ratings!”
    “That’s great news,” I said with a fake smile since I had already heard the news over the weekend.
    Then Laraby shifted gears and sounded like my other college dorm buddy, who went to bizarre lengths to try and catch glimpses of me partially or fully naked.
    “That’s fabulous news, Stevie! We should celebrate. Is it too early in the morning for canapés? What about a mixed fruit parfait? Chez Vouvez downstairs has the freshest berries all year long, all year long , can you believe it? And the chef, Roget, who I think is from Prague, puts them in the most darling parfait glasses that have slender necks and plump bottoms. They remind me of my mother. What do you say, Stevie? Should we do it? Should we celebrate?”
    At that moment I realized even if Laraby was gay, I didn’t care. I was not the canapés, parfait, or Vouvez type. I like things simple. And he was a very complicated man.
    “Why don’t we just raise our coffee cups in honor of everyone’s hard work?” I said.
    A light