CH-CH-CHANGES, Guest Post Cat
My cousin, Brian, recommended a stylist. He being in the ad game and all that, he knows a lot about these things and I know nothing. So I go with his stylist who is a weird little girly-man who flits around me like a damn horsefly. By the time he’s done with me, I look like a whole other person, all hot and handsome and stuff. Why can’t I look like this on my own?
“Remember, it’s Christian themed music,” the record company guy tells him. “We don’t want sex to just ooze from the cover.”
“Sure we do,” my manager rings in. “He may sing about God, but the ‘oh God’ you hear from all the little fanny girls and boys who get off to his picture and his voice are not exactly praying.”
I shake my head at both of them. No one really gets it. This is celebration music. This is raising a voice in thanks. This is real stuff, not just some shit to sell Cds. It has meaning to me. The photography session goes on way too long. The lights are hot and blinding, I see nothing but shadows beyond them. When I take a break, I notice that Phillip joined the crew at some point in time. That makes me grin.
I avoid the horse fly to run over to him and throw my arms around his neck. “When did you get here?”
“A few minutes ago. Damn, you look hot, Cathan. I love your hair.”
I laugh at him. “Don’t get attached. It won’t last. I missed you.” I kiss him on the lips. Phillip may be out and proud, but PDAs always make him a little uncomfortable. He’s still sort of a prig.
“You just saw me this morning,” he reminds me as I grab his hand and lead him away from prying eyes, behind some screens in this big ol’ loft where I’m being photographed. This time he kisses me back and his hands cup my butt as he brings me close to his body. I can feel his cock against me and I sweep his tongue with mine as I whisper,
“Let’s do it.”
“Here?” his protest is sort of half-hearted. “With all those people around?”
“Brian would,” I taunt him and he glares at that truth. My hand wanders down his belly to squeeze his hard-on through his pants. He moans, and I push his back to the wall and kiss him hard before dropping to my knees in front of him.
“This is crazy,” he moans, but he isn’t trying to stop me as I take it out and start to suck it.
“Don’t touch my hair,” I warn him when he reaches for me. He laughs and let’s his hands rest on my shoulders. He comes fast and then, as he’s doing the same for me, the horse fly comes into view.
“Cat, we need…oh dear! Oh my! Uh…”
I give him a get the fuck out of here glare as Phillip doesn’t even pause in what he’s doing. So much for his discomfort with PDAs. The horse fly is paralyzed for a moment, then he rushes away. Within minutes, it’s over for me, and Phillip stands. We kiss, tasting each other, the heat still simmering. “Will you wait and we can go get a late dinner when I’m through here?” I ask and he nods.
“I wouldn’t miss it. My little cover boy.”
I laugh. “Don’t make me self conscious.”
As we return to the knot of people, the horse fly comes over and is a little prissier than before as he fluffs up my hair and presses a puff to my face. “Now you’re all flushed. I need to put some green in this powder to neutralize the red. I don’t see why you couldn’t wait until…”
“You don’t?” I interrupt. “Did you get a look at my boyfriend?”
He sighs. “Yes, you have a point.”
“And he’s rich too,” I tease him. “And romantic.”
“The pretty boys all dance together,” he says with a sigh, something I’ve heard before in the gay world. Finally, the shoot ends and I ditch the rest of them as I throw on my jacket and take Phillip’s arm.
“Let’s go.”
“The cover is going to be gorgeous, Cathan,” he says as the ancient elevator creaks towards the street.
“You think so?”
“I do. I’m losing you to the masses.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t mean we won’t be together, but it won’t be the same, will it? Your record will be a smash, you’ll be the new teen cream king and we won’t have a minute of peace. Paparazzi, tabloid headlines, all kinds of incursions.”
“Hey. Are you embarrassed to be linked with me?”
“Of course not. I adore you, Cat. But we have to acknowledge that things will change.”
“We don’t have to change, Phillip. I don’t plan to change. I’m not into being a fucking star. It’s not about that for me.”
He spreads his hand on my face. “I know, and I believe you. But whatever you are in it for, things will still change.”
“I love you, Phillip.”
“I know. You too.”
At the street level, I link my arm through his and we begin to walk the streets of Tribeca, looking for a place to land and get warm and eat some grub. At least it isn’t raining or snowing, for a change. I can’t believe Phillip is worried about my stupid CD changing our relationship. I’ll be lucky if it gets any airplay at all. And when the gay thing is shot into the Christian ranks, I’ll probably be reading about churches asking kids to bring their Cds in for a mass burning. I think the whole thing is a real crapshoot. I don’t see it turning out good for me. But I have to try.
We go into a small café that features a tapas menu. In Texas, I never even heard of tapas. Now I know almost all of the things they put on these small plates, including what to avoid (baby octopi fried crisp and anything made out of parts of animals that are more than one layer down) and what to emphasize (olives, cheese, shredded pork, beef short ribs). He demands the wine list, he won’t drink sangria, although I like it. It’s kind of like wine made by the Hawaiian Punch folks. Which is why he says he won’t drink it.
I take off my leather jacket and read through the selections as a guy serenades the room with a medley of Spanish guitar songs. Growing up in Texas, I know Spanish pretty well, which helps with the menu. Of course we learned Mexican Spanish, not Spain Spanish, but close enough. He begins to play a song called “Perfidia”, one of my old favorites, and I lean over to croon it to Phillip, who laughs at me.
Before I know what’s happening, the waiter is talking to the guitarist and the manager is coming over, asking me to sing a number with the guy and I’m saying no while Phillip is forcing me up. I feel like an idiot in this room of blasé New Yorkers as I share the stage with the guitarist and he starts Perfidia at the top. I sing the first verse in Spanish, and then lapse into English, as I direct the torchy lyrics at my lover.
I sing, “To you, my heart cries out ‘Perfidia’, for I find you, the love of my life, in somebody else’s arms.” I’m so involved in him that I don’t notice the room has become engaged in my performance. When the song ends, their energetic applause and requests for more brings me out of that weird little world I get into when I sing, where I can shut out everything but the music. I acknowledge their kindnesses with a smile and a wave and rush back to our table.
“Someday they’ll see you on television or in a magazine and say ‘Wasn’t he that adorable young man who sang Perfidia at the tapas place that night?’ And they’ll appreciate it even more,” he tells me as the first plates arrive and I shake my head, feeling the blush burn in my face.
But…
I reach over and grab his hand. “Phillip, promise me if people do buy my CD you won’t let it change anything.”
He squeezes my hand as he gives me a little smile and says, “Everything changes, Cat. All of the time. We just have to adapt.”
I nod, but my reassurance over his words is not as strong as I had hoped.
