The Last Straight Man Page #4

You never asked me

who I was saving it for.

I had three better

questions that year.

But I assumed you were

saving it for your Wife.

So did I.

But even when We were dating,

that peck at the wedding,

I knew that it wasn't for her.

What wasn't for her?

The intimacy.

The person I could

share my soul with.

Be one with.

I mean, don't get

me wrong, buddy.

I love her.

I, I really do.

I mean, she's gonna be

the mother of my kid.

But she's not my other half.

She doesn't complete me.

Complete you?

Has the Lifetime channel gone

Clockwork Orange on your ass?

No.

The wife, she has these

romantic audio books.

She listens to them

before we go to sleep.

One of yours once.

Have you ever f***ed

to a Harlequin romance?

I f***ed on a

Harlequin romance.

I got tapped at the library.

So you're afraid of intimacy?

Of finding intimacy,

especially now.

I'm married, Lewis,

with a kid on the way.

What happens if

I find the person

that I'm supposed to be with?

Think about it.

And you think it might be me?

Wait.

Are you afraid it might be me?

You sure do make a

lot of dramatic exits

for a straight guy.

I call three questions.

Sh*t.

Not now, Lewis.

F***.

Rules of three questions.

The game can be initiated

once a year, at any time,

by either player.

No refusals.

No time-outs.

- Cmp

- Your game.

Your rules.

- OK.

Go.

We've been together in the

Leviticus sense four times now.

Question one.

Shoot.

Do you consider

yourself gay or bi?

Neither.

I'm straight.

But you can fit more of

my cock down your throat

than a porn star.

You jackhammer my

butt like it's payday

at the construction site.

Question two.

How can you consider

yourself straight?

Question one.

How can you consider

yourself bi?

What are you talking about?

After my bachelor party, you

said that you were bisexual.

But since then, every

relationship you've told

me about has been with dudes.

What gives?

It's an evolution from

straight, to curious,

to bisexual, to gay.

I call it the

Elton John Parkway.

I just got off at the

Ricky Martin exit.

So you're 93V-

Yeah.

And you're straight.

Yeah But I can admit I'm gay.

Why can't you be gay?

Why-

I like women, Lewis.

I always have.

I just like to suck

dick once in awhile.

Have you had sex with

any men other than me?

No.

Why do you think I meet

you here every year?

To get all those urges

out of my system.

I'm a gay pressure valve.

No.

You're my best friend.

I couldn't do it

with anybody else.

You know what I think?

I think you're bisexual

with a preference for women.

Can we agree on that?

50/50, so to speak.

Well this is

definitely a mood killer.

I'm just trying to

figure out how you

justify what it is We do here.

Why do we need to justify it?

Let's just have some fun and

leave all that heavy sh*t

outside in the real world.

Uh, I believe you're the one

dragging the real world in here

with this I won't kiss mantra.

If you truly believe that this

hotel suite was fantasy land,

a kiss wouldn't mean anything.

Hell, throwing your legs

up wouldn't mean anything.

Being bi--

- Straight.

--Wouldn't mean anything.

Can we just drop it?

All I want is a little

oral sex, mano a mano.

Not for me to be staring

at ink blots while I do it.

I thought I was the comic

and you were the straight man.

Nest, you'll say

I have daddy issues.

Well-- sorry.

You got your Freud

in my Dr. Ruth.

You got your Dr.

Ruth in my Freud.

Shots?

No.

You got two more

questions to ask me.

I don't feel like playing.

Come on.

What's your favorite color?

How about some music?

Whatever.

[music playing]

Hey, do you recognize this?

It's the song the Wife and I

danced to at the reception.

Come on, Lewis.

It's four years ago.

[music playing]

This is nice.

Yes, it is.

[music playing]

I would have bet

you didn't have

a romantic bone in your body.

You can put this

in one of your books.

You have my permission.

Thank you.

All I want is

10% of the gross.

This scene is too

sappy for a book.

It's better suited for a

drippy, melodramatic play or

some dopey, independent film.

You're selling us short.

No, I'm not.

You're selling somebody short.

So how about them Cubs.

Shut it.

You're not a bad dancer.

Where'd you learn that?

When you have

two older sisters

that look like your

father, you learn to dance.

Dip?

Nicely done.

And you?

My grandma, Rose.

Did I ever meet her?

No.

She lived alone in a

big house in Salem.

On the second floor, at the end

of the hall was a locked door.

And whenever I'd ask

her what was inside,

she'd put finger to her lips.

Ssh.

And one day when

we were alone, she

showed me this old fashioned key

hanging from a thin blue ribbon

around her neck and said,

Lewis, would you like to see

what's in the secret room?

I almost peed myself waiting

for her to unlock that door.

So?

What was inside?

Another bedroom.

That's it?

No.

This one was really fancy

with a big canopy bed,

frilly curtains on the

Windows, pink wallpaper,

an antique dressing

table, and there

was a huge fireplace

with crying cupids carved

into the marble mantelpiece.

And along one wall, stacked

from the floor almost

to the ceiling, where hatboxes.

Towers and towers of hat boxes.

Grandma Rose told

me to look inside.

So I took one down,

removed the lid,

and inside was a human head.

What?

OK, you're paying attention.

Dick.

Inside was a hat, of course.

It was purple felt with

feathers and beads.

It looked brand new.

And with it was

a paperback book.

A romance book.

It was the same in

every box I opened.

Hats and books.

Grandma Rose told me that after

Grandpa died, every few months,

she'd go into town and

buy a hat and a book.

Then, after dinner, she'd

sit at the dressing table,

put on her makeup, her

best dress, the hat,

and sit in a chair by the

window reading her stories.

Her favorite hat was pale pink

with cream colored pearls.

And her favorite book was called

Tales of True Love and Romance.

Whenever we were alone,

we'd go to the secret room,

put on our hats, and

dance to the radio.

When she died, I

packed up her things.

I tore up the house looking

for the key to that room.

I was afraid it had

been buried with her.

But finally, I found it.

It was the first time I'd

opened the room by myself.

And I was so nervous,

my fingers trembled.

But it looked the

same, exactly the same.

But when I opened

one of the hat boxes,

it was empty, except for

a page torn out of a book.

Her favorite book.

I opened every single box, Coop.

I wanted to find the

pink hat with the pearls.

But they were all empty.

All empty except for

pages torn from tales

of true love and romance.

That's when I noticed

in the fireplace,

underneath the crying cupids,

a scorched set of pearls

and a mound of ashes.

She'd burned her hats.

All of them.

On the mirror of her

dresser, she taped a picture

of herself holding the book.

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