Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1499577-Deep-thanks
by Mey
Rated: E · Short Story · Drama · #1499577
A short story about a batch of friends, one of whom is gay if that bothers you bugger off
There’s a story in me, or maybe it’s the story in you that I’m reading. I’m not quite sure. I don’t know who it’s about, I don’t know where it takes place, it’s just there. I know what it’s about, and that’s enough, for now. The rest, I’ll pull from my head. It starts here, now. When you read this, should you read this, it won’t be now. So let me clarify, the now is 2008, February 24, though I should say, the 25th because in a few minutes it will be.
“What is normal?”
“Why the fuck should I care?”
“Shouldn’t you know? After all you have to know what you aren’t in order to know what you are.”
“Why thank you.”
“Was there a point?”
“I didn’t think so.”
We were in my bedroom. And it was early. It was me, and my friend. Why we were in the bedroom, is none of your God damn business. Fuck off. I was admiring the ruffle on his shirt and he played with my buttons. We were lying on my bed, and music played softly, I am not sure what it was, probably the cure, though maybe not. I’m not really into them.
“And what are you doing to my buttons?”
“Who? Me? I’m not doing anything.”
“Well then stop fiddling with them. I feel like your trying to undress me.”
“Well you have always known I’d love undress you. I’ve my intentions clear from the beginning.”
“I know, and you know that as much as I’d love to have you, I’m not gay.”
“You could be.” He said with a smile.
“I know, but as I’m happy now I see no reason to change. All you need to be happy is to be happy.”
“Why thank you.”
Nothing can compare to that perfect balance you get with a friend. You can fight, you can cry, you can do anything you want, and true friend will always be by your side laughing all the way.
“Friendship is an emotion. I’ve decreed this.”
“Why not wait to later?”
“Sorry, ruining the mood aren’t I?”
“Umm hum,” he purred. “Candles, some wine, & good music & yet you go & spoil it with talk of friendship.”
He was right of course. Not that we needed the mood. We were friends & friends only.
“Come on babe, let’s dance.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
I stood up & offered him my hand, and he took it.
“John, we’re only dancing.”
“She turn’s me on.”
“But we’re only dancing.”
“She turns me on, don’t get me wrong,”
“But we’re only dancing.”
We laughed as he put his arms on my shoulders & we danced, to the music that played behind us.
I love David Bowie; he makes good music, not to mention that he looks fabulous.
“There’s no one quite like Bowie.”
“I like let’s spend the night together.” He said waggling his eyebrows.
I laughed. If you don’t know Bowie than you don’t know anything about his songs, which is what we were talking about, john, I’m only dancing, & lets spend the night together are both David Bowie songs, and two of my favorites I might add.
“If you weren’t gay, we might’ve been something,” I said as we waltzed.
“Umm, and what is that?”
“So something is nothing?”
“No, nothing is something. But I’d rather have you as a faggot friend then as a nothing.”
“You are so gay.”
“In your dreams.”
“Every damn night.”
We laughed until dawn & danced the night away.

It scares a lot of people when their friends want to have sex with them; especially if they’re ‘straight’ & their friends are the same sex. But Maxwell and I had been friends long before he went gay, and we looked into same-sex relationships at the same time, I came out not exactly ‘bi’ but sure as hell not the same. Maxwell found that he liked men better. He also found that I was sexy.
It didn’t change our friendship though.

Though Maxwell was light sensitive, he wasn’t blind. He could see that I had feelings for him. He could also see how much sugar I was putting in to my French vanilla tea.
“Why do you do that?”
“That.” He said indicating the sugar bowl that was almost empty & the tea cup that was almost full.
“Why fill the tea so full of sugar that you can’t taste the tea?”
“What’d you mean can’t taste the tea? I can taste it just fine I thank you.”
“Yeah well go fuck yourself.”
“Only with your help.”
“Hehe, love ta but can’t.”
“Ooh come on. You’d love it.” Maxwell did his little eyebrow waggle going for seductive but only getting as far as suggestive.
“I’m sure I would. I bet you’re dynamite in the sack.”
“Boy, I’m a nuke.”
“Come on you fag let’s get outta here.”
The here that we were getting outta was the kitchen. It was the morning after the night before, February 25, around 6:45.
“Alright, we’re a little early though.”
“Ugh just imagine being early for once! Wouldn’t that be an experience?”
“Yea yea Mr. Maxwell.”
“See yah later mom,” I yelled before I shut the door. Maxwell & I left the building heading for school.

The day was cool & brisk, it would have chilled us were it not for our coats, mine a full length black trench coat, & his a short black leather blazer. The sun should have been breaking over the horizon with the glorious pink sunrise at our backs, but today the clouds kept the sun rise in check creating a gray dawn for our walk to school.
“Why dose the wind blow so bitter when the day is new, why not wait until the day is done to blow with such scorn?”
“The life of a day sees only things to scorn at the dawn of the day, but as time passes it sees things to live for until the end when it blows gently goodbye.”
There was a pause.
“deep.” We said together.
“Who do you think is the greatest author of all time?” I said
“What?” was Maxwell’s reply.
“Who’s the greatest author of all time, in your opinion?”
“Hummmm…good question. Probably someone who’s not famous, but just a nobody sitting around in a basement in some nowhere town, who doesn’t have the courage to try & get their work published,”
“Like who?”
“Exactly.” Maxwell said with a laugh. “How about you? Who do you think is the greatest author of all time?”
“Me, umm…humm… good question. I’d have to go with some one famous like Neil Gaimen.”
“Not a bad choice, probably not the greatest of all time, but a great read none the less.”
“Oh I’m sure there are better writers out there I’m just saying he’s my favorite.”
“Ah, I still like that man in the basement.”
“I love his work.”
We smiled and chatted all the way to school.

The gray dawn broke into a gray afternoon, & that became bleaker & grayer due to a lack of anything stimulating during the day. I rarely saw Maxwell during the day & I had no other friends who went top school with me & so the day was slow, but uneventful.
Lunch was awful, history was bad, but those things were never any good so my day did not change. I waited for then end of the day eagerly. When at last the day ended I almost ran from my class.
Maxwell & I met at the street sign that marked the end of the road & the beginning of the school’s drive way.
“Think Monica will be ready?” Maxwell asked as we crossed the street.
“Probably not, call her.”
It was a Monday & therefore it was chill day. Chill day the day on which ‘The Group’ meets. It was basically a gathering of the three of us, (Maxwell, Monica, & me, the only Goths around) & anyone else we could find. Therefore, it was just us.
“Don’t forget, we will be meeting today, at your house in…one hour.” Max said in his best wicked witch of the west voice.
“Answering machine?” I inquired.
“Yea, she must still be in school.”
“I think not.”
“Hello, work release, therefore she is not in school but at home on her ass.”
No one whom we knew (of for that matter wished to know) had ever used work release for work. Instead the time was wisely invested in dancing, graveyard picnicking, & anything else that came to mind, & wasn’t completely illegal.
“I bet she totally forgot about chill day.” Maxwell stated matter of factly as his cell phone started to beep out the most pixilated version of H.I.M. I had ever heard. He looked at it for a moment, checked who was calling & answered, “Good evening my child, you’ve reached the memory crises hotline, if you can’t remember why you called just hang up, if not please speak now.”
Definitely Monica then, he’d be playful to anyone else but not this playful.
“Yea we’ll be there soon,” he said “uh huh, yeah, ciao.”
“She ready?” I asked.
“Not quite yet, she’s fiddling around with her cosmetics, but she said come on over, & that she has a surprise.”
“I doubt it but yeah,”
“Better hurry then.”
“Why the hell not sweet cheeks.”

We arrived at Monica's house before the clouds could decide whether they wanted to rain on us or not.
She lived in a small townhouse with her father, younger sister, & older brother. On the out side it was very much just like every other home in its row, neat orderly, red brick green shutters, fresh mowed green lawn, & the ultra deluxe minivan. Most of the inside was like this as well. Neat. Clean. White walls & a beige carpet, with that stupid drippy paint on the ceiling that always made me think of stalactites.
The basement however was Monica's domain. The walls were black, the carpet was deep red (with splotches of color where she’d dripped paint on them), & the ceiling was free from the offending stalactites.
I assumed Monica’s bedroom was also black & red, but you had to be determined & have a lot of time in order to find out for sure. Her walls were covered in band posters ranging from Cradle of Filth to Patrick Wolf, & her floor was strewn with a variety of things ranging from clothes to sharp pointy objects that would seem at home at the bottom of a pit in the temple of doom.
Her father answered the door and once again I was struck by how different they were from one another. Where she was tall he was short, she was blond to his brown, & he was overall very plain & she was…extravagant to say the least.
“Hey guys, she’s in the basement, you know the drill,”
“Alright dad.” We both chimed in unison as we headed past him to the stairs. This failed to faze him, in fact very little fazed him. Once the two of us showed up at 2:30 in the morning, Maxwell was in drag & I was wearing a frilly Victorian outfit & all he said was “in the basement, don’t do anything loud or dangerous” & then went back to sleep. My, what a magical night that was.
Monica was in her living room, lounging on the couch. A low budget vampire flick was playing on the television illuminating the room. She was tall, thin, & in a word beautiful. She had naturally black hair, not that very dark brow, but that true black that has blue highlights that only comes with Asian decent, though it was many generations back, the only implication of Asian ancestry was her hair & a slight tilt to her eyes that was only noticeable if you really looked. There were piles of cloths on almost all the chairs, which wasn’t surprising, what was surprising was when she turned & introduced one of the piles.

© Copyright 2008 Mey (darkzem at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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