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Thursday.
When Stephen leaned across the desk, Jon was sure it was only to reach for the Kung pao chicken. He grew less certain as Stephen overshot the assumed target and leaned directly into Jon's personal space.
Jon froze, a forkful of chicken fried rice halfway to his mouth. Stephen's nose was inches from Jon's collar and Jon went cross-eyed as he tried to see what Stephen was doing.
He felt rather than saw Stephen sniff twice, deeply and noisily, before sitting back.
"New perfume, Jon?" Stephen asked, disinterestedly picking up a clear packet of soy sauce.
"I -- cologne, Stephen. New cologne." Jon realized he was still frozen with his fork in midair. He lowered his hand, setting the plastic utensil down on a nearby takeout container.
"'Cologne', Jon?" Stephen said, chuckling bemusedly. "Not with those vanilla undertones. Try a little more sandalwood next time, and pass the Kung pao, would you?"
Jon handed him the chicken. "Stephen, I swear to you, there are no vanilla undertones. There isn't even any perfume -- cologne, new or otherwise. Why the hell did you just sniff me?"
Stephen, his mouth already full of chicken, said, "You're a very pretty woman."
"Excuse me? Could you repeat that? Without the chicken."
Stephen swallowed. Looking directly at Jon, he repeated, "You are a very pretty woman. Now that I've said that -- twice, might I add -- I believe it's customary for you to thank me and perhaps swoon or offer sexual favors." His face was the picture of innocence as he waited raptly for Jon's response.
"What? I'm not going to thank you, Stephen." Jon could feel a laugh building in his chest. It was the uncomfortable laugh of a man desperately clinging to his good humor.
"You never could take a compliment," Stephen said with a sigh. Then, calmly, he turned his attention to cutting up his chicken.
"That wasn't a compliment, Stephen. 'Hey, man, nice tie' or 'Saw that girl you left with last night. Way to go, tiger.' Those are compliments. But 'You're a very pretty woman'? I don't even know what the hell that was. I'm not a woman, I'm not pretty -- would you leave the chicken alone and look at me? -- there are no vanilla undertones, and I still don't know why you just sniffed me."
Stephen set down his knife, cocked his head, and sat back in his seat. He blinked a few times, slowly and deliberately, as if trying to gather his thoughts.
"You smell nice," Stephen began, and Jon started to protest. Stephen shook his head, indicating that he had more to say.
"You smell nice. You're telling me it's not perfume -- excuse me, cologne," he continued, rolling his eyes and making air quotes, "and I believe you because I'm a gentleman and I want to get laid. Do you know who else smells nice even when they're not wearing perfume?"
"Sean Hannity?"
"Women. Women smell nice. If you smell nice and women smell nice, you must therefore be a woman. And a very pretty one at that."
The hysterical laugh was starting to escape, and Jon pressed two fingers to his lips, trying to hold back the outburst. "I, I, first, Stephen, I'm happy you think I smell good, but --"
"You're giggling, Jon. Do you know who else giggles?"
"Women?" Jon guessed.
Stephen gave a one-shouldered shrug that seemed to say, "Well, what are you gonna do?"
"Look, Stephen," Jon said, tamping down his giggles, "just because a equals b equals c, c doesn't always equal a. I mean, an apple is a fruit and an orange is a fruit, but an apple isn't an orange. Or something. It's been a long time since high school algebra, but --"
"I'm not a fruit." Stephen's voice was firm and cold as he cut off the end of Jon's sentence. He stiffened, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line.
"You're absolutely right, Stephen," Jon agreed easily. "If anyone were the fruit in this equation, it would be me. But just because I'm comparing this to talking about fruit, it's not like...I don't know where I was going with this anymore. What I'm trying to say, though, is that I'm not a woman."
When Jon looked at Stephen, it was clear that Stephen hadn't heard a word Jon had said. Stephen wore the dim, petulant expression of a computer program that had hung, refusing to process any further information given to it.
"I'm not a fruit." At once, Stephen snapped out of his nearly catatonic state, launching into a frenzy of motion. He snatched up his plastic knife, pulled his plate closer, and attacked his chicken with renewed vigor.
"I'm a red-blooded, heterosexual, American man," he said, the words sounding rehearsed, familiar but empty. Anxiously, Stephen glanced from the chicken to Jon and back again as the onslaught of words kept coming. "I am a very, very straight man. I've resisted baby carrots and Brad Pitt and my building manager Tad. I can't believe you would have the audacity to call me a fruit after all I've been through. But, damn it, Jon, that isn't even the worst part. The worst part is that you've been taking advantage of my gender-blindness and lying to me for ten years. Why, Jon? Why?"
Jon reached across the desk, touching Stephen's hand to still his frantic motions. "Stephen," he said, brushing his thumb across Stephen's knuckles, "I don't know what you're talking about, but I swear I haven't been lying to you."
Stephen jerked his hand away. "You're lying right now."
"I'm not --" Jon ducked his head and grabbed his hair with both hands, tugging at it in frustration. When he felt the tension in his scalp, he forced himself to relax his grip, mindful of the fact that his hair was becoming increasingly sparse without his encouragement. "All right. All right. Why are you so sure I'm lying to you? Tell me why, and then I'll convince you that I'm not."
"I'm not a fruit."
Jon frowned at the sudden digression. He opened his mouth to protest, but Stephen held up a hand to silence him.
Lowering his hand, Stephen continued, "I don't even wear loafers, so I'm sure as hell not light in them. My wingtips and I love women. We're attracted to women."
"How do you know they're women?" Jon prompted. "I mean, since you're gender-blind and all, how can you tell? By their perfume?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Jon. I know because I'm a straight man and straight men are attracted to women. If I am attracted to someone, then clearly that someone is a woman."
Jon opened the top drawer on his desk, the one where he kept rubber bands, pencils, and over-the-counter medicine. "How do you know you're a man?" Jon asked, rummaging through the drawer.
"People tell me I am and I believe them because I have cajones muy grande."
Jon found a roll of antacids but had yet to locate the Tylenol. "And you know I'm a woman why?" he asked, popping two Tums into his mouth and continuing to dig for the Tylenol.
"Because I'm attracted to you."
Jon was so startled that he jumped, smashing his knuckles against the edge of his desk. "Son of a bitch," he swore, bringing the sorest digits to his mouth. "You're attracted to me? What? Why -- how? I, I, Stephen, I'm flattered, but I'm a dude."
"Dammit, Jon," Stephen said, slamming his palms down on Jon's desk and sending script pages flying. Stephen shoved his chair back and leapt to his feet. "Don't lie to me to spare my feelings. You think I'm not good enough for you, don't you? You and your liberal elitist Daily Show, you --"
"No!" Jon yanked his fingers from his mouth. "No, Stephen. No, it's not -- how do you know you're a man, again?"
"People tell me I am and I believe them because I've got some pretty impressive junk," Stephen replied. His words came quickly and easily, but his features slanted into a frown of confusion as he spoke. The frown quickly became one of anger and Stephen drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at Jon.
"I see what you're doing," Stephen said. "You're trying to get a free preview of the merchandise. Well, Jon, I'll have you know that's not going to work. I may be cheap, but I am not easy."
Jon took a deep breath and counted to five. Stephen was right: there was nothing easy about him.
"That's, that's not even close to what I'm trying to do, Stephen," Jon said, trying to keep his tone as smooth as possible. "I'm still trying to tell you that I'm not a woman."
"How do you know you're not?" Stephen challenged. "I mean, you asked me. It's only fair that I ask you."
"All right." Jon leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Using his tongue, he pushed the antacid tablet around his mouth as he chewed on an idea. He caught the tablet between his molars. "I have a penis." He bit through the chalky antacid with a loud crack.
"So?"
Jon blinked once, then twice. "Seriously? 'So?' You just established that as the baseline for knowing you're a man."
The look Stephen leveled at him made Jon feel like an idiot. "No," Stephen said slowly, "I know I'm a man because people tell me I am, not because of my junk. You can't look at someone's bits and pieces to figure out what gender they are."
"Then why bring it up in the first place?"
"Because the chicks dig it."
"Stephen, I swear to you, women do not like it when a guy brags about his junk."
Stephen's eyebrow arched high over the top of his glasses as he peered down at Jon. "And how would you know what women like, Jon, unless you were one yourself?"
Jon covered his face with his hands and tried to remember why he had called off his search for Tylenol.
"I have you there, don't I?" Stephen asked.
"You really don't," Jon said into his hands. He pressed his fingers to his temples, but the pressure only served to increase his headache.
"Tell you what," Stephen said, gracefully reclaiming his seat. He crossed his legs, right ankle over left knee. "I'm a fair man, Jon. If you can prove to me that you have a penis, then I'll humor you and concede that you are a man and therefore completely unattractive to me."
"How do you want me to -- oh, no. Absolutely not. Forget it, Stephen. This is ridiculous. You can think what you want. I'm not going to -- in my office, in the middle of lunch, for fuck's sake -- I'm not going to unzip just so you can see I haven't been stuffing rolled up socks down my pants everyday for the ten years you've known me." Jon scooted his chair closer to his desk, so close that edge pressed against his stomach. "You're just going to have to trust me on this one."
"Trust you?" Stephen laughed. "Why should I trust you? Everyone tells me what a girl you are, Jon. And I've seen pictures of you in a dress. I'm not going to take your word over everyone else's words, much less over a picture's thousand words."
Jon sighed. "When people say I'm a -- wait. Who the hell's been calling me a woman?"
Stephen pointed his nose in the air. "I don't out people who out people. You'll just have to figure out on your own that Anderson Cooper is a snitch."
Jon filed that information in the back of his mind. "I can't believe you'd take his word over mine. I'm your friend; you barely know that guy."
"It's not just him, Jon. It's the dress and the, the, the crown thing."
"Tiara?"
"Ah ha!" Delighted, Stephen pointed an accusatory finger at Jon. "Only a woman would know that. Why would a man care what that crown thing was called, or what color that pretty dress of yours was? All we care about is how fast we can get you out of it. And I'm going to do just that."
"What, get me out of my dress? Stephen, in case you haven't noticed, I'm wearing pants."
"Regardless of what you're wearing, Jon, I intend to court you. I'm going to treat you like a lady until I can get into your pants and prove once and for all that you are a woman."
Tuesday.
In the year and a half Jon had been meeting Keith, Anderson, and Stephen for bi-monthly lunch dates, none of them had been less than ten minutes late. Anderson was the current record-holder for tardiness: he had once shown up just as the others began to bicker over who would pick up the bill.
Jon wasn't quite that late, but he approached the table feeling confident that he had a lock on second place. To add insult to injury, Keith, who was always the most punctual of the group, saw him first.
"Well, look who deigned to grace us with his presence," Keith grumbled, causing Stephen and Anderson to look up.
"Hello to you, too," Jon said, reaching for his chair.
He couldn't say for sure how it happened, but Stephen was at his side in no time, his hand already on the back of the chair. "Let me get that for you," he said, brushing a quick kiss across Jon's cheek as he pulled out the chair.
"Uh." Jon couldn't even manage to stutter. He hadn't blushed in years, not since the first time Denis Leary had told him a dirty joke, but the strange and sudden warmth in his face felt suspiciously like blushing.
Not knowing what else to do, Jon lowered himself into the seat. He could feel Keith and Anderson gaping at him, and he tried to think of a joke, but he ended up fish-mouthed, dumbly opening and closing his mouth without saying a word.
Anderson broke the silence. "I just saw that, right?"
"No," Keith said. "Neither of us could have seen that because it did not happen."
Jon reached for his glass of water and took a long drink. He resisted the urge to touch his cheek, reminding himself that he was neither a love-struck girl nor an asshole who was afraid his friend had just slobbered all over him.
He glanced over at Stephen, who was reading the menu as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Uh, thank you, Stephen," Jon said belatedly, setting his water glass back on the table. He followed Stephen's lead and picked up his menu, glad for an excuse to look away from the others.
Anderson coughed, and even though Jon was rattled, he could tell it was the phony cough of the well-mannered trying to hide a lapse in etiquette. "I hear the Baked Alaska is good here," he offered.
"Or for those of us who aren't skipping lunch and dinner and heading straight for dessert, the sirloin burger is damn good," Keith suggested.
"I could go for that," Jon said, quickly closing his menu and setting it back on the table. Although he had been glad for the distraction, he had realized shortly after picking it up that he couldn't focus on the words, let alone make a decision. Jon would have gladly taken suggestions from the host of Fear Factor if it meant not having to think too hard.
Despite being the one with the recommendation, Keith was the last to decide, and the waitress appeared at the table just as he was setting his menu down. The waitress looked pointedly at Jon, her pen poised at the ready, but before Jon could say anything, Stephen was saying, "He'll have the sirloin burger, well done. I'll have the same, but medium-rare."
He then closed his menu, stacked it on top of Jon's, and handed them to the waitress with a winning smile.
"Are you going to pay my bill, too?" Jon asked. To his own surprise, his tone was edged with amusement rather than annoyance.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Stephen answered. "I know how much you feministas hate it when the man insists on being the breadwinner. This isn't the nineteen-fifties anymore; I get it; I'm cool with that. I'm a man of the nineties, Jon. You can pay for your own lunch. Besides, I wouldn't want you to feel beholden to me, like you had to put out or anything."
Jon glanced over at Keith and Anderson, and he was fairly certain he caught Keith in the middle of making the international gesture for "he's crazy," even though Keith was trying to cover it up by scratching his ear.
Choosing to ignore it, Jon looked back at Stephen. "Believe me, Stephen, if you wanted to pay, I wouldn't feel beholden to you."
"You say that now, Jon, but the debt would still be there, lingering in the back of your mind, nagging, clawing -- I could never do that to you."
"Not to interrupt or anything," Anderson interrupted, "but, Stephen, it's a lousy hamburger. I really don't think that gets you past second base."
"I don't know," Keith said thoughtfully. "It's a sirloin burger, not a Quarter Pounder. It might be worth a hand job, or at least something involving a loofah."
Stephen puffed out his chest and drew himself up to his full height. Leveling a glare at Keith, he said, "There are ladies present, Mr. Olbermann."
The way he said it caused Jon to have visions of Stephen pulling a Zell Miller and challenging Keith to a duel. The visions all ended with Keith kicking Stephen's ass, so Jon decided to intervene quickly.
"Uh, Stephen, I don't mean to -- you did, in all fairness, say 'put out.'" He hurriedly added, "Not that I was offended by that, either. But thanks for defending my, uh, for protecting my delicate sensibilities."
Stephen seemed to consider this for a moment, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Fine," he said, practically spitting out the word. Then, standing, he said, "If you'll excuse me."
He walked away from the table without waiting for a response, and Jon found himself alone with Keith and Anderson's questioning stares.
"I'll bite," Anderson said after Stephen was out of earshot. "What the hell's going on?"
"Yes, do tell. Has he finally flipped his lid?" Keith's eyes sparkled at the possibility, and Jon suspected he was already trying to squeeze Stephen onto the day's Worst Persons list.
Jon crossed his arms over his chest. "Stephen thinks I'm a girl."
A look of disappointment flashed across Keith's face. "That's it? He thinks you're a girl? That's what this is all about?"
"Yeah," Anderson agreed, frowning. "I mean, no offense, Jon, but you've always been a little, well, girly. Stephen is just noticing?"
Jon heard Keith say under his breath, "Says Mr. Masculinity."
"No," Jon said, cutting off any argument that Keith's comment might have started. "Stephen doesn't think I'm girly. Stephen thinks I am an actual woman who may or may not be in possession of an actual vagina."
Anderson choked on a sip of water. "What?" Even through his coughing, he worked the appropriate degree of incredulity into the question.
Jon waved his hands dismissively. "It's not -- that's not important. Well, okay, maybe it is, but there's a bigger problem here. He, um, while we were eating lunch the other day, Stephen told me -- he said he was attracted to me."
Until he said those words, Jon had never known that it was possible for two already silent people to get even quieter.
"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Jon said, feeling like he was in the middle of a Seinfeld episode. "I mean, hey, he's Stephen. He's -- I...you know. I don't mind, but I'm worried about him and how he's behaving. It hasn't even occurred to him that a gay sex scandal could ruin his career. Actually, no. I know he's considered it, and it scares the hell out of him. But what he doesn't realize is that, to the rest of the world, this has all the makings of a gay sex scandal."
Keith paled and pushed his water glass further away from his place setting. "Thank you," he said, sounding a little sick. "I now have visions of, of, of that in my head."
Anderson kept his face and his voice neutral, but Jon detected a glimmer of delight in his eyes when he said, "Are you two..."
"No!" Jon yelped. He sunk down in his seat a little, and continued at a normal volume. "Not...not right now, no. I mean, obviously we're not doing it now-now, because we're not even in the same room, so that would be a little difficult."
Jon stopped speaking when he saw Keith make several jerking motions with his head, accompanied by a few strange twitching gestures with his hands.
"Are you having a seizure?" Anderson asked sounding equal parts amused and concerned.
Keith stopped twitching and let out a grunt. "I was trying to indicate, subtly, that the subject of our conversation is rapidly making his way back to the table."
Almost simultaneously, Jon and Anderson turned to look over their shoulders.
"So much for subtle," Jon heard Keith grumble, and he considered turning back to scowl at Keith, but once Jon saw Stephen's expression, he couldn't turn away.
Stephen's eyes lit up as soon as he noticed Jon watching him. His Zell Miller look quickly became an even brighter version of the grin he had given the waitress. The grin made him look just the slightest bit goofy, although Jon supposed he just wasn't used to seeing Stephen happy.
"What did I miss?" Stephen asked, giving Jon a quick kiss as he passed to return to his seat.
Keith, Anderson, and Jon all exchanged glances, but it was Anderson who provided the cover story: "Just talking about the Mets."
Saturday.
As he watched the candlelight flicker across Stephen's features, Jon took the last sip from his wineglass, his tongue darting out to remove any trace of it from his lips.
"So," he said, glancing uncomfortably around the dimly lit restaurant. Now that the food was gone and their conversation slowed, the strangeness of the situation was beginning to set in, even through the slight alcoholic haze of the wine. "We should probably head out, huh?"
Stephen nodded and stood. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like to take you back to my place."
Jon raised an eyebrow, a habit he had acquired from Stephen, as he too rose to his feet. "Are you coming on to me?" he asked, batting his eyelashes coyly. "Trying to get into my pants, maybe?"
"Oh, absolutely," Stephen agreed, placing a hand on the small of Jon's back. The touch was so light it almost tickled. "Besides that, I have dessert waiting. Don't get me wrong, I'm a damn good cook, and I'd be more than happy to eat it all myself. I've just heard that it goes better with company."
"Well, as long as you're clear about your intentions," Jon said as they stepped outside. "How far is your place?"
"Two blocks as the eagle flies," Stephen said, gesturing straight ahead. Rather than lower his arm back to his side, he draped it over Jon's shoulders. "Want to take a cab?"
"What? No, this is fine. It's a nice night," Jon said. He felt clumsy tucked under the weight of Stephen's arm, so he ducked out from under it, but he quickly caught Stephen's hand in his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "The walk will do us good. We can burn some of the calories from that dinner."
"Live a little, Jon," Stephen said, lacing their fingers together as they crossed the street. "Tonight, don't worry about maintaining your girlish figure."
"My figure is far from girlish, Stephen," Jon said, and he felt Stephen's lips brush against his temple in a poorly calculated kiss.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Jon. I told you, you're a very pretty woman." He leaned in and sniffed loudly. "Still smell good, too."
"Better than Sean Hannity?"
"Let's not get crazy," Stephen said.
They made the rest of the walk in a comfortable silence, until they reached Stephen's building. Stephen mumbled a hello to his doorman, and Jon couldn't help noticing the slight smirk the doorman gave when he noticed their joined hands. The smirk and Stephen's obliviousness made Jon's stomach sink.
In the elevator, Jon leaned against Stephen, tilting his head back slightly. "You should tip your doorman better," he said, and in the elevator's mirrored ceiling, he saw Stephen make a face.
"Why? The man doesn't do anything. He just stands there all day in a goofy hat. Besides, part of the rent goes to his salary."
"Yeah, okay," Jon said, not wanting to pick a fight. "So, what's for dessert?"
The elevator dinged as it reached their floor, and Stephen shot Jon a look. "Oh, you'll see," he said, leading Jon off the elevator and to his apartment. He unlocked the door and entered ahead of Jon, explaining, "I'd say ladies first, but there could be a cat burglar."
"Understandable," Jon said, glancing around the apartment. He had only been there a handful of times, and it was every bit as cluttered with strange artifacts as Stephen's studio. Each time he visited, there were new items scattered around the room, and he wandered over to investigate one that was pinned to the wall behind the sofa.
"Feist gave me that," Stephen said, appearing at Jon's elbow with two champagne flutes. He handed one to Jon as he gestured to the blue sequined jumpsuit in front of them. "I think it's more your color than mine. You should try it on sometime."
"It's going to take more than one glass of champagne for that to happen, Stephen."
"I'll have to work on that," Stephen said. He kissed Jon's cheek. "I'll be back in a minute."
While Stephen disappeared into the kitchen, Jon let himself out onto the balcony. Taking a sip of his champagne, he leaned against the low wall and breathed in deeply. He could swear he smelled the trees and flowers from Central Park rather than the exhaust from the cars below. Earlier, Jon had said it was nice out just to keep Stephen from insisting they take a cab. Now he was starting to notice how right he had been.
Searching the blue-black sky for the moon, Jon heard the screen door slide shut as Stephen joined him out on the balcony. He found the crescent just as he heard Stephen setting plates and forks on the outdoor table.
"You can see the stars from here," Jon said, gesturing to the sky with his champagne glass.
Stephen joined him at the wall, slipping an arm around Jon's waist.
"I don't know if that's included in the rent or what, but there's a lot of them. I mean, there's three over there, then four, five --"
Before Jon could make it to six, Stephen's mouth was on his, not only silencing him, but also making him forget how to count as Stephen's tongue slid past Jon's lips and his hands roamed over Jon's back.
Stephen backed him against the wall, and, distantly, Jon heard his glass shatter as he dropped it to the balcony floor. Now that his hands were free, he wrapped his arms around Stephen's neck and returned the kiss with equal fervor. He felt Stephen's hands slide down to knead his ass, and he moaned into Stephen's mouth just before Stephen pulled away.
Stephen's eyes were darker than Jon had ever seen them, and he was breathing heavily. He looked almost apologetic as he said, "Jon -- I...women counting, Jon. Do you know what that does to me?"
Jon thought about reassuring him, thought about making a joke, but ultimately ended up pulling him down for another kiss. "I know," he mumbled as their lips touched, in the moment before he deepened the kiss.
As Jon pushed his tongue into Stephen's mouth, he felt Stephen's lower body connect with his for the first time. Jon's heart leapt into his throat as he realized Stephen could undoubtedly feel his erection, and he immediately broke the kiss, placing a hand on Stephen's chest to keep some distance between them.
He couldn't look at Stephen, and so he stared at the shattered glass. "Stephen," he began, and he wasn't sure where to go from there. "You've probably, uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but about that being a woman thing, I..."
"Jon," Stephen said, and Jon instinctively looked up at him. "I'm not ready to concede anything. Not unless you want me to."
Jon broke into a grin, but it only lasted the briefest of seconds before Stephen's mouth was on his once more, his hand moving toward Jon's belt buckle.
:end: