Here we all are at lunch. My first day in France. One big happy family. My mother making one of those lunches of hers where everything is pastry. Her husband, Graham, fresh out of the shower, hair all slicked back, Mister Stud. That weird guy who is the director over at the theater school they have at the Abbey this summer. That older lady, Estelle. She’s cool. She’s the only one who said she would like to play some computer games later.
And those two gay guys who are part of the theater festival. Hugo, the blond one. He was interested that I’m planning to study philosophy this year at Columbia. And his friend. Mister Cutie-Pie. And I’m not supposed to know they’re gay, I suppose.
When they heard my nickname was “Fluffy,” I’m sure they thought I must be gay, too. “Fluffy” is my nickname at home. Not everybody can use it. My mom. My grandmother. My father still uses it, too. But I don’t let my stepmother in New York use it. She knows it. I’ve never heard her try.
Graham calls me “Fluffy” from time to time, and I don’t really mind. And Theo calls me “Fuffy.” Which I like. He’s a sweetheart, Theo. So smart. And crazy about cars. Graham said he would teach me how to drive this summer. With the old Peugeot. He said if I could drive that I could drive anything. The black beast. He’s right about that. It will be cool when I start university this fall and tell people I learned to drive this summer in a 1959 Peugeot. It’s like driving a tank.
Grandma is coming over in a few weeks, and Mitzi is going to come about the same time. It is very annoying that I am still a virgin. I am hoping Mitzi will solve that problem. She seems to know her way around. She’s always talking about sex.
I’ve got to stop masturbating so much. It’s getting so I’m doing it more than once a day. I wonder if adults, grown-up people, have sex more than once a day? If I knew they did, it would make it easier not to worry about masturbating.
Jesus Christ, I’m eighteen years old. I should be having a regular sex life. Maybe I’m gay. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe the reason I haven’t got laid is that I really don’t want to. It is pretty weird to think about laying down on top of somebody and putting your thingus right into their body. It’s sort of like an operation or something.
Somehow what gay guys do seems a little more sensible. They just suck on each other. And I guess they stick it in each other’s poop-shoot. Ugh. That can’t be good. Well, maybe. What do I know?
And here Mom is having another baby. She’s kind of old to be doing that, but she told me that the doctor looked at some kind of x-ray or something and the baby is normal with nothing wrong with it. A girl. She’s going to name it for Grandma. My grandmother. So very cool. She gets right on the subway with me, and we go to the baseball games. My father would never do that. The new baby can come with us. And Theo.
Here comes the salad. I hate tomatoes. Why does every salad have to have tomatoes in it? Particularly those little red ball tomatoes. They make them so they can be shipped to the moon without spoiling. You try to cut them, and it’s impossible. You have to put your fork in them and even that isn’t easy. They get away and roll all over the place. And then you put them in your mouth and they squirt all over the place. Stupid.
So all these people sitting around this big table out here in the garden under this umbrella think I’m some kind of jerky kid who doesn’t know anything. Except maybe Hugo, who isn’t much older than I am. I don’t think he is. I don’t mind talking to him. But I’m keeping my mouth shut. No one is going to talk to me anyway. The old geezer the director has to be gay, too. He keeps giving the eye to Hugo. He probably has some very dated idea that he’s going to score if he gives a nice, juicy part in a play to Hugo. Like Hugo could care out here in nowheresville.
I like it because I can speak French and get my skills up so when I take it in college I can get good grades without having to study very much. It’s funny talking to Mom in French because she speaks it pretty well, but she has an American accent. Grandma, too. Grandma’s is different because she learned hers in college out in the Midwest fifty years ago.
Hugo and his friend have on some cool clothes. His friend has a Dolce and Gabbana belt I’d like to have. It would be very good with my new jeans. And Hugo has on those shoes I want. Tod’s. He must be doing okay in the acting business. They’re expensive.
I think I’ll get up and help carry some dishes into the kitchen. I’d start washing them, but Mom won’t let anyone do that. She always says her guests aren’t here to work. By that, she doesn’t mean me. It’s just that she wants everyone to remain at the table until the meal is over. She’s like Grandma. Very old-fashioned and correct. Except that she left Dad and went off with Graham. Which isn’t exactly how it went. Because Dad already had that girlfriend. Mom told me once that she never slept with Graham until she had moved out of the house. And I think that’s right. You can leave someone, but you shouldn’t cheat on them.
Let me help carry out the desserts. Cherry tart from the bakery here. Looks good. Where’s that Steve guy? Hugo’s friend. Guess he had to go to the bathroom. Hey, what was that crash?