they were very gay and very drunk.
actually only one was very gay
the other was russian
came here a year ago to get away from putin.
his bf was an art director and designer and at first i was worried he was gonna hurl.
it was 4pm on sunday.
sorry we’re drunk, the designer apologized with earrings and a trucker cap and his hands all over his soviet hunk
bottomless mimosas? i guessed.
all day wine, he slurred.
the thing about drunk people is they’re unpredictable.
that is not a good thing when it’s a half hour ride from pasadena to weho.
one minute the designer was mocking every question i was asking his man,
next he’s singing along to the kacey musgraves tune on the radio
and placing his warm hands on my neck and back to emphasize the lyric.
the russian was serious but in a confused way like when you wake up to commotion and you’re not sure if you should put your pants on before addressing the mayhem
i hate putin, he murmured when i asked what made him come here
what do you do now that you’re in the states?
i move things he said and looked at me in the rear view
i like to brag that if youre in the car with me for ten minutes i know whats going on. let the record state i had no clue what comrade meant
so we talked russian literature
what do you know about the russians? the designer mocked while hiccupping, fiddling with his seat belt
un petit peu, i said
what? he said, finally sitting still
i said tolstoy used to have the rich people speak french if the servants were in the room and then revert back to russian when they were gone. that way he could tell you where people were… without telling you. bro’s a damn genius.
oh.
the russian’s name was pyotr
it means peter in russian the designer informed me
peter’s the rock in the Good Book, i nodded to the designer.
always! he said, taking a grab at the eastern european
lemme ask you a question, pyotr, i said.
more of the questions from this guy, designer sighed.
it’s illegal to be gay in russia, right?
yes.
so how old were you when you found out you were illegal?
what? pyotr asked because of his English
but the designer chirped, how old were you when you knew you were a fucking breeder?
first grade, i said. she was the fattest girl in class. we were outside in a line waiting to get into school on a cold day in illinois. her name was wendy and her big ol’ red cheeks were redder than ever. she was tall. i was not. so i climbed up like she was a redwood tree and when i got to her cheek i kissed it and slid down
pyotr was imagining all of this and i continued
but wendy wasn’t as shocked as the other kids because i had done the unthinkable. so they started chanting You. Have. Wendy. Germs! You. Have. Wendy. Germs! You. Have. Wendy. Germs!
the men held hands in the back and listened
so i ran at my class of first graders with my hands out in grabby motion, laughing as they shrieked and scattered IM GONNA GIVE YOU WENDY GERMS! IM GONNA GIVE YOU WENDY GERMS!
i was 15, pyotr said.
i had nearly forgotten i had asked a question.
i said, ok so im taking you to weho, which is like the unofficial center for gay guys in LA. is there an unofficial gay center in moscow?
nyet, he said.
everything’s underground?
yes. it’s illegal. very bad things could happen if you were found out.
then the designer chimed in, but nicely this time.
he said, when i took pyotr to pride this summer, my sweetie cried.
pyotr! i said, surprised that this stoic man wasn’t just a handsome robot or walking drone
i’d never seen a thing like that. he said. people everywhere.
freedom, he said.
then, i never want to go home.