CHAPTER 7

PAPARAZZI

The word “awkward” comes to mind to describe the lengthy silence between us as we all stood on the platform waiting for the train headed downtown. Well, Kimberly was chattering at an impressive clip, but J.J., Duane, and I all seemed to be momentarily stumped for conversation.

Once Kimberly had put out the notion that we were all on a double date, not just hanging out, suddenly everything gained an unanticipated weight and meaning. I ran through my mind everything that Duane and I had said to each other, and especially given his behavior with Buck, I was pretty sure he wasn’t thinking of this as a date between the two of us. Unless he was trying to make me jealous? Could my visit to see him at work the other day have been misconstrued? I mean, I guess it was okay if Kimberly had interpreted it that way, but that had never been my intention. Although, since I’d decided I wasn’t ready to confide in him about what had happened between J.J. and me, it wasn’t impossible for him to have misunderstood my visit.

I kept darting my eyes over to see if I could tell what Duane might be thinking, but he looked as perplexed as I felt, although he did seem to focus on the way Kimberly was holding on to J.J. Oh god, did that mean he was wondering if he and I should also be holding hands?

As the train arrived, and J.J. and Kimberly queued up with a group of people at one of the car doors, Duane tugged my elbow towards the group waiting for the other door of that same car. As we waited to board, he whispered into my ear, “I thought you said your family didn’t know you were gay.”

“They don’t,” I said. “Or, at least, I don’t think they do. Or didn’t think they do. Did? I don’t know.”

“Sometimes girls have better gaydar?”

I craned my neck to see Kimberly looking up at J.J. and immediately discounted this argument. I briefly met Duane’s eyes for the first time since Kimberly had used the “date” word and shrugged. Passengers had finished getting off the train, and as our group surged on, Duane kept whispering to me as we were pressed together by the crowd. “Because I thought you said we were just going to be hanging out tonight.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“So this is not a date?”

He was behind me, so I couldn’t see his face to tell if he wanted it to be or not. “Uh, I guess for them it might be, but I didn’t—for us—it wasn’t—I thought we were just hanging out.”

“Okay, good, because, no offense, you’re adorable and all that, but you’re a bit clean cut and boyish for Coco Chanel Jones.”

As we took our places standing in the aisle, reaching up to hold onto the bar near the top of the subway car, I was finally able to see his face, and he looked concerned and apologetic. I suppressed a laugh. “No offense taken. You’re a good-looking guy and all, but …”

“Too much of a woman for you?” Duane said, rearing back slightly as if taking mock offense.

“Without a doubt,” I said with a laugh.

Then letting out a sigh, relieved that at least one thing was now clear, I had just the slightest wonder at the back of my head—I know this is stupid, but just tell me you’ve never done the same and I’ll call you a liar—well, wait, why wouldn’t he want this to be a date? That unproductive thought quickly took a dive into more troublesome self-doubt as I caught sight of J.J. a little further down the car and couldn’t help thinking to myself, well, hell, if a twinkish drag queen isn’t interested in dating me, how in the world can I imagine that someone as gorgeous and amazing as J.J. Kennerly would ever want to? I started getting a slightly sick feeling in my stomach as I realized I’d committed myself to spend the evening as one of the main ingredients in a recipe for self-torture.

“Why does he keep looking at us?” Duane asked.

“Who?” I looked around, glad for the distraction.

“Kennerly. Freaking homophobic, patriarchal asshole. We have as much right to be on a date as he does, the fucker.”

“But I thought we just established that we’re not on a date.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

And then, just as I caught J.J.’s eye, Duane leaned in and kissed me.

By the time we arrived to the “fresh” air of Bleecker Street, I’d had to twist my hand out of Duane’s four times, back away from three kisses, and twice had him pinch my ass as we were walking up the stairs, each and every time only when J.J. was looking, of course. And J.J. was looking over at us more and more, no doubt just as Duane intended. I kept mouthing “I’m sorry” to J.J., but it didn’t seem to do much good at removing the darkness from his brow.

Duane had been the one to suggest the East Village, but once we realized that only he and Kimberly had fake IDs, the bar he’d had in mind wasn’t going to work. (Although I had a heck of a time stopping myself from shouting out that they should go get a drink, and J.J. and I would just go find someplace else by ourselves.) We found a cafe, and as soon as we’d ordered beverages and desserts, Kimberly announced she needed to visit the powder room, and I suggested to Duane that maybe he needed to go, too.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, dashing my hopes at a moment alone with J.J.

But then he changed his mind, and I felt such relief I almost wanted to cry. He and Kimberly stood up … and didn’t take a single step away from the table for at least two minutes, which felt, to me, like two hours. They’d spent forty-five minutes alone together in her room, so did he really need to keep telling her how fabulous she looked—and getting confirmation from J.J.—while I was waiting for just a few seconds alone with the only person in the world that mattered?

But just as they began to step away from the table, a guy seated closer to the bathroom got up, entered the men’s room, and locked the door. Kimberly made a face and whispered to Duane that she really had to go and the ladies’ was empty. He shrugged, saying he could wait and sat back down as she walked off. Argh.

He turned his head to find a vaguely annoyed look on J.J.’s face (and I can only imagine how obvious my annoyance must have looked). “What’s the matter, J.J.?” Duane asked as he put his hand on top of the one I had resting on top of my paper placemat. I yanked back my hand, but Duane grabbed it, putting it firmly back on top of the table. “Don’t be shy, puddin’. We have every bit as much right to show public affection as anyone else.”

I wanted to die, or for the ground to swallow me up, or some form of Biblical distraction to occur. But, of course, those things never happen when you need them to, do they?

J.J. gave a slight shrug. “Do whatever you like.” But his eyes flicked briefly towards me, as if asking me if that was what I really wanted.

“But I don’t like to hold hands,” I said to Duane, then turned back to J.J. and blustered, “I mean, in public. I mean, I guess I would under certain circumstances, maybe, if, you know, the circumstances were right.”

Duane leaned in, looking deeply into my eyes, and said in a way that sounded like an attempted seduction, “You’re so eloquent.” He still firmly held my hand on top of the table, so I brought up my free hand and roughly pinched the skin on the back of his as soon as J.J. looked away.

“Ow!” Duane mouthed, looking peevishly at me, but I looked back at him with at least equal irritation. Then he smiled towards J.J., and I made the naive decision to take a sip of my water.

“Then again, J.J., I guess as good-looking as you are, I’m sure you’re used to girls—and guys—throwing themselves at you all the time.”

In the nanosecond I realized I was about to spit the water in my mouth across the table, I managed to sort of suck it back it with a gasp, which led to me coughing convulsively as I’d almost managed to drown myself right there in the dry flats of the East Village.

Finally, the door to the men’s room opened. “Bathroom’s free!” I practically shouted through my coughs, pointing so emphatically I almost hit Duane with my thrusting finger.

With a look that suggested I was acting oddly, he moved towards the bathroom, and as soon as I was sure he was out of earshot, I leaned over the table and told J.J., “He’s just doing all of that to piss you off.”

“Doing what?” J.J. asked.

“Making it look like he and I are on a date.”

J.J. looked panicked as he sat forward. “What did you tell him?”

I backed away, not expecting that. “Nothing.”

“Then why would he think that would make me jealous?”

“No, he thinks you’re homophobic. He said you kept watching us, so he thinks he’s freaking you out by being all over me.”

Looking slightly offended, J.J. said, “Does he know anything about my family’s support for the LGBTQ community?”

“Seriously? Is that what you guys call it in your house?”

J.J. smiled guiltily. “Pretty much. It’s a very PC atmosphere.”

“Well, you might want to let him know that before he feels the need to molest me again for your benefit.”

J.J. shook him head, amused. “Kimberly definitely thinks it’s hysterical.”

As little as I expected from Kimberly in the way of kindness, I have to admit it still hurt to hear she was laughing at me. “She does?”

I guess my expression revealed something of what I was feeling, because J.J. clarified, “No, I mean, she thinks it’s adorable.”

“She does?” And now I was kind of touched.

“Mm-hm,” J.J. grumbled.

As I tried to get by mind around the fact that Kimberly seemed to not only know that I was gay, she also accepted it, another thought dawned on me. J.J. had asked if Duane thought I was making him jealous. I had never used that word. Did that mean it was making him jealous? Was it possible that the idea of another guy touching me was making J.J. jealous?

Unfortunately, before I could ask that, or any of the other thousands of questions I’d wanted to put to J.J. since Sunday, Duane and Kimberly returned to the table.

“Hey J.J.,” Kimberly said as she squeezed into the side of the booth she was sharing with him, “remember those drag queens that performed at the ball last weekend?”

“Oh, yeah, they were great,” J.J. said. Then, with a glance at Duane, he added, “I mean, for a bunch of fags.”

I almost dropped the glass from which I was taking a sip. No sooner had I thought I’d bought myself a few minutes of relative calm, then this happened.

Kimberly looked surprised, but Duane looked ready to throw down. Then J.J. let out a laugh. “I’m just messing with you, dude. Chris said you think I’m a homophobe, and that’s so not my message. Love is love.”

Duane squinted his eyes at J.J., trying to decide if he was still being played with, when I tugged down on his arm and told him to sit down. He did so slowly, still looking at J.J. suspiciously, then finally lifted a hand to wag a finger at him. “You are not funny.”

Still smiling, J.J. turned to Kimberly and asked, “What were you saying about those drag queens?”

Kimberly pointed at Duane proudly. “He’s one of them.”

J.J. looked dubiously at Duane, not sure who was fooling who now. “Shut up.”

“No, you shut up, bitch,” Duane said, as he snapped a napkin over his lap. “Coco hasn’t decided whether or not to forgive you yet.”

“You’re Coco Chanel Jones?!” J.J. asked, genuine surprise clear in his voice and on his face.

Suddenly with his own share of disbelief and wonder, Duane sat forward. “You know who Coco Chanel Jones is?”

The night had finally taken a very positive turn.

I would have sworn we had been there less than an hour, sharing each other’s desserts, talking, laughing, just, hanging out, but when I looked at my watch, I was shocked to find out it was after ten o’clock! I had to get up for school in the morning, and I still hadn’t finished all my homework. Regretfully I announced this to the group, and J.J. immediately signaled to the waitress for the check. But when she came over with the bill folder and J.J. reached out for it, waving away our attempts to figure out our shares, a slightly annoyed look came over his face as he opened it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He hesitated, then apologetically looked at Kimberly before saying, “Sorry, this happens sometimes.”

“What?” she asked, trying to see what was in his hands.

“Someone has picked up the bill,” J.J. explained to us.

“And the problem with that is?” Duane asked dryly.

J.J. turned to show us what the folder contained. On a blank page from an order pad in a woman’s flowing cursive was written, Please allow me. Suzanne. 917-555-9878.

We all slowly turned to look around the cafe and saw a very attractive redhead in her mid-twenties wave with a smile.

“Redheads are such sluts,” Kimberly said.

“Kimberly,” J.J. said, “it’s never a good idea to jump to conclusions. She could be in politics, or a reporter, or just a fan.”

“Or a slut,” Duane said.

“I hope you won’t think this is rude, but I really should go over and say thank you. In fact, maybe we all could? Safety in numbers and all that.”

“Are you serious?” Kimberly asked.

“You know I’m going into politics someday, right? She could be a future constituent.”

“Is that the euphemism they use on Capitol Hill?” Duane asked.

J.J. laughed. Before he could say more, I tried to help him out by telling him he should go say thank you and we would wait where we were. He waited for Kimberly’s acquiescence, which she finally gave with a shrug of her shoulders. All of our eyes followed him, and not a word was said at our table until he returned, which was in less than a minute.

As we stood, Kimberly shot another dirty look over at the redhead, who held up the slip of paper with her number on it to show that J.J. had returned it. This made Kimberly very happy.

But as he was opening the door for us, J.J. said, “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?” Kimberly asked.

He nodded to a spot across the street where a number of paparazzi were waiting. “Someone tipped them off.” He closed the door, and turned to face us.

“Does this happen all the time?” I asked.

“Pretty much,” he said.

“Damn, I have been living my life all wrong,” Duane said.

“Do you guys mind if I call a cab? My treat, of course.”

“The subway’s not that far,” I said.

“They’ll follow us. They might even follow us in a cab, but less likely.”

“Of course, do what you need to do,” Kimberly said.

He stepped away to make the call, and Kimberly looked peevishly across the street. “It’s just rude, really,” she said. “So invasive.”

Duane gave her a slow burn up-and-down as he said, “Well, you better get used to it, Miss Thang, because you’re dating him.”

Kimberly then turned surprising shy. “I am?”

“Girl, you should see the way he looks at you when you turn away from him. It’s all just so deep and … complicated.”

That word again. If he only knew.

Once the cab arrived, we darted out of the restaurant and into the waiting car, having been cautioned by J.J. to look as casual as possible. Don’t make eye contact with them, don’t smile, don’t cover your face or head, just look as boring as you know how. Evidently that kind of picture brought the lowest price, and would likely never see print. Duane had asked, “What if I wanted it to see print?” but J.J.’s look reprimanded him into his best behavior.

Once the car drove off with only one of the photographers running a few steps beside us to get a few more shots, J.J. apologized again for the inconvenience. Duane turned around from the front passenger seat and said, “The only thing you need to apologize to me for is not letting me show them how fabulous I truly am.”

J.J. laughed. “Well, maybe we’ll have to think of a bigger media setting, so that Coco really has the chance to shine?”

Duane looked at Kimberly as he pointed to J.J. “This is a really, really good man. I approve.”

Kimberly, who sat in the middle between J.J. and me, beamed as she leaned against J.J., putting her head on his shoulder.

As she did, J.J. looked over her head at me, and said, “It’s not easy dating me. There’s constant attention, and you have to be very careful, and very secretive. Our security people do electronic sweeps all the time, but even a text, or a phone call, or an email might be intercepted and made public, so everything has to be very innocuous. We might even want to make up codes, so that only we know what we’re trying to say to one another.”

“I don’t mind,” Kimberly said.

After a long moment of J.J. and me holding each other’s eyes over the top of Kimberly’s head, I gave him the smallest of nods. As we continued uptown, I at first felt an almost overwhelming weight of fear and guilt and self-doubt. But then as I replayed in my head what he’d said about the difficulties of dating him, I finally stopped and focused on one word: dating. I was officially (if secretly) dating J.J. Kennerly.