K hates crowds. He likes small groups of friends and quiet places. That's why K avoids nightclubs as much as possible. It's why he only goes to theme parks during Gay Days and never any other time of the year unless he has guests in from out-of-town. And, most of all, despite his work to give gay people their rights, he REALLY hates crowds of gay people. Gay people may be discriminated against unjustly, but God, are they annoying. . .
That he works so hard to improve the lives of his fellow gays, who he mostly dislikes the company of, is an unresolved dichotomy of his personality. Or rather, K's pretty fucked up and not much about him makes sense in the traditional way in which things about people are supposed to make sense. He blames his parents for that -- wherever they are.
The crowd that K stands with outside the Enzian Theater, awaiting the opening of the Orlando Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, is not disappointing K's lowered expectations. Bitchy laughs with fingers bitten down upon as if to relay the message of, "Oh, I shouldn't say that -- but you KNOW it's true, Girl!" occur too often for his patience. Plus, standing in line with N, the man so determined to give his public image a long-overdue overhaul, is over-working his own nerves.
When K had stepped from his car, N had immediately started fussing about him. "No, no, no! The collar has to be up. And your shirt -- tuck one side in and leave the other -- yes! One side in and the other out. The collar has to be UP! It's not 80's -- it's NOW! The jeans are not too long -- you look very L.A. Yeah, your old clothes were very L.A. two years ago -- when you were still living in L.A. No one wears those clothes anymore. You look hot now. These new clothes make you look fresh. Need more mouse in your -- hold it. Didn't you -- come on, K! Why is it so flat?"
"What hair are you talking about?" K asks. "I'm bald."
"Don't say that. That's not true."
"N -- I have more hair on my legs than I have on my head. It's okay. I've accepted my fate as being that of The Balding Former Twink. I'm good."
"You were never a Twink."
"Well, I was definitely a Sugar Daddy's kept boy a time or two in my youth."
"That doesn't make you a Twink," N tells him, "It makes you smart."
* * *
K stands in the line only as long as he needs to. When he sees one of the organizers of the event, he decides to take advantage of his recognizability. He raises a hand, lifts his eyebrows as if to say, "I don't like standing out here and if you know what's good for you, you'll get me out of this fucking line right now, thank you." and is quickly ushered inside where another of the organizers shouts his name, rifles through a box of passes, and hands him an envelope of the passes he'll use the remainder of the weekend. N, too, is whisked in alongside him and, never having seen K use his powers for N's good, is quite impressed.
"They like you," N tells him. "I feel like I'm with a famous person."
K is given a mimosa by one of the organizers. "I'm famous to maybe five percent of a small percentage of a small community in a small city. It's nothing to be impressed by. Unless," K adds, sipping his mimosa, "You happen to be in the presence of those five percent of that small percentage of that small community in that small city. In that case, take the freebies."
No sooner does N receive that lesson than one of the organizers, who sits on another committee that has been doing what K calls, "basically nothing at all" despite "Making people think they actually do shit for the community" comes along to kiss K's ass and seek out K's involvement.
K fights back the urge to tell him, "Here, you need a Tic-Tac. Your breath smells like ass, which is appropriate, considering what you're kissing."
Instead, he tells the guy that "You can call me, but I'm really overcommitted right now. I'm helping the HRC, Equality Florida, Reconciling Ministries, The Center -- Oh -- and I have a career. I'm a little short on time I can give away right now."
K also leaves off that he's also helping Hope & Help, the Special Olympics, and working on something he can't discuss just yet.
Regardless, he manages to leave the guy behind, another organizer whisking both K and N to their table inside the theater.
The theater, with it's tiered floor filled with tables, is looking extra clean for the festival, with enormous posters hung from ceiling to floor. The waiting staff is anxiously milling about, positioning chairs and menus.
K is very happy with his table. He makes a mental note to shoot off an e-mail thanking a ceratin someone for positioning him so well.
He and K order some light appetizers as another round of complimentary mimosas are sent their way.
He knows N is excited to be at the event and, honestly, K is too. But N, in addition to an interest in seeing the movies, the actors, the directors, is also interested in gauging L's reaction to this new model of K. K could care less; he honestly doesn't care about impressing the guy who just broke up with him. It;s not something he does. L doesn't register on his emotions as anything. Not even a blip. The last great hurt was X and . . .
Wow.
The one year anniversary of K moving out is just a few weeks away.
For a moment, K slips into a reverie. A year ago, the two weren't even speaking. They would avoid each other. If K saw the lights on, he'd go for a drive and come home later, when the lights had been turned off. And when they did see each other, X would glare at him with that awful look that said, "Fine. Leave me. You're shit anyway."
"What's wrong?" N asks him, interrupting K's not-so-instant replay.
"Nothing," says K -- the New and Improved K. Now with fashionable jeans and hot footwear!
* * *
Somehow, somewhere between Another Gay Movie and Available Men, K agrees to help out with the October Pride events which, spread out over five days, rival Gay Days' June events for requiring stamina and energy and, of course, money.
Five days of events.
And K has agreed to help out with the scheduling, planning, set-up, tear-down, promotion, sponsorships, speaking . . .
What the Hell?
* * *
Prior to the beginning of Available Men, while theater goers are milling about, visiting tables of those they know, while K is shaking hands and posing for pictures and enduring the too-frequent hugs of men and women he barely knows, he spots L and P.
His ex and his ex's ex-turned-non-ex are seated together at a small table in the highest tier.
K's heart freezes for a moment. Not with hurt but with something a bit more stunning than hurt. With a type of recognition that almost kills him dead.
He has little time to give it much thought with all the handshaking and so on going on but, as the lights dim again, as he sits back in his seat, as the film festival continues with Available Men. . .
. . .K gets up and goes to the restroom. But instead he steps outside the theater, wishing to God that he had a cigarette. He could really use one right now.
He hates himself for giving up smoking. He'd suck down a pack of Marlboro Reds right now if he had access to one.
