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Novel Excerpt: The Home For Wayward Ladies by Jeremy Scott Blaustein

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The Home for Wayward Ladies Cover

This week What Lit brings you the excerpted first chapter from novelist, Broadway producer, and local Baltimorean, Jeremy Scott Blaustein’s new comedic novel, The Home for Wayward Ladies. The novel was put out by Dress Circle Publishing, a New York City press dedicated to theater-themed books by members of the Broadway community. Here is a link to their website: http://www.dresscirclepublishing.com/#!books/cnec

 

1 ELI

BRUNCH

noun

1.  A late morning meal between breakfast and lunch.

2. A weekly event where homosexual men drink mimosas and cluck about who put what in where the night before.


I have made a decision. As of 9:43 this morning I am effectively out of love with Hunter Collier. Don’t get me wrong— it’s nothing that he did. Actually, it’s more what he refused to do, which was to love me in return. But, as of 9:43 this morning, that well has officially run dry. Thankfully, the Bloody Mary’s over brunch are wet. Without Hunter Collier, they’re all the hope I have to quench my thirst.

Not to say that he has been banished from the kingdom. To the contrary, he’s still sitting across the café table avoiding eye contact as I ask him to pass the Sweet’N Low. Maybe he won’t look at me because he’s been forsaken. And, then again, maybe not. I’m over here languishing after having untied myself from around his little finger while that motherfucker doesn’t have the decency to notice. To his credit, though, he doesn’t notice much nowadays. Ever since we moved to Manhattan I don’t know what’s wrong with him. What I do know is that he’s a shell of who he used to be. His million-dollar smile had rapidly depreciated and his moony eyes seem forever buried by an eclipse.

Nick Applebaum, the Ladies’ other 33.333%, has also graced us with his presence. Unlike Hunter, however, Nick couldn’t manage to look innocent if he ditched the evidence in someone else’s bag. Friendship with him is a constant reminder to never turn your back on family- it leaves you too susceptible to dagger attacks. Not that a stab wound matters much among friends. And seeing as we’ve all been the best of friends since college, “the devil you know…” I suppose.

But, as checkered as our past may be, we’re still proud to share one, just as we are proud to embark upon a future. Brunch is where we make those plans. And seeing as our new home is a city that’s famous for not giving you the time to wipe after a shit- let alone take one -brunch is where we un-pucker and release, where we laugh at our embarrassments with such panache you’d think we didn’t know we were the punch line.

Nick is our patron saint of knowing no shame. He doesn’t talk so much as bray. “The handsome ones are always such a goddamn bore. They close their eyes and lay there like an emperor while I do my level best to not rupture my spleen.” He speaks with no concern for the table next to ours, which includes an expectant mother dining out with her in-laws. “Last night, I’m riding his dick like it might break off inside me and that son-of-a-bitch barely has the decency to thrust.”

“Come off it,” I say, trying to curtail his humble-brag. “He was the same guy you let fuck your ass last week. We share a bedroom wall, remember? I know I’ll never forget it; the sound of someone’s prostate caving is one you can’t un-hear. Last night, you let him take you again, but

don’t claim it was by surprise. If he was such a disappointment the first go-round, why’d he get a second chance?”

He takes a long sip of mimosa before I’m dignified with a response. As usual, it’s hardly worth the wait. “Listen here, you schlimazel- he’s saved in my phone as ‘Big Dick Rick.’ He’s beyond hot, Eli. That’s plenty reason enough for me to want to sit on it twice. The way I see it: letting him fuck me, however tedious, is an investment. You were at the bar last night. You saw how everyone watched when I walked out with him.”

“You didn’t give us a choice; we were astounded. His hand was down the back of your pants before you’d made it out the door. For fuck’s sake, he carried you to the taxi like a six pack.”

“And wasn’t it sensational?” He points his jagged finger so close to my face that I want to take a bite. “What have we here? Doth your hazel eyes commence to turning green? Oh, Eli, just because I got mine again doesn’t mean you won’t ever get yours.” He urges Hunter to laugh and I want to kill myself when he’s all too willing to comply.

“Oh, please,” I scoff, readjusting my tortoise-rim glasses. “Your exploits make me feel nothing but unclean. Did you even make him wash his hands before you let him clap them both inside you?”

“What can I say?” Nick replies. “I’ll do anything for applause.”

“Then do the world a favor and study mime.” I’m generally proud of myself for saying my piece this time around. Although this is fair game, I usually avert confrontation with Nick like you’d avoid a pothole in a Porsche. Any argument with him risks the chance of turning into an unexpected triathlon where all you can do is duck when he throws emotional spaghetti at the wall to see what will stick.

“Well, I for one, say ‘bravo,’” Hunter chimes in, shamelessly wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “But, gentlemen of the jury- let the record show that I will not be taking sides. Nick, darling, since we arrived here three months ago you’ve had more conquests than Alexander the Great. Perhaps Eli would prefer you not complain about your good fortune. From what I understand, you went home last night with the most handsome man at the bar that wasn’t pouring drinks. We should all be so lucky.”

Nick looks pleased to have been dressed down by Hunter, as if he’d taught him well. He says, “Well, if you two don’t learn to mind your p’s and q’s, I won’t let you backseat drive the way I drive my backseat.” Having had the ceremonial last word, he peels the lid off another packet of butter to ensure his pancakes are fully saturated.

Watching him slather as the butter puddles and pools I know I can’t compete. Nick’s construction is supreme: toned arms, tight ass, and cheekbones higher than his metabolism. (That’s not to say that all the cocaine he did in college didn’t offer a substantial boost…). There are more men lined up outside his bedroom door than movies in my Netflix queue. Each suitor is carved from a finer marble than the last. Meanwhile, while his asshole is learning how to validate parking, I’ve been experiencing more romantic misfires than a blindfolded sniper on Valentine’s Day.

A lull hits the table when the waitress brings another much-anticipated round. Hunter takes the opportunity to shirk his duties as monkey in the middle. He wipes the corners of his mouth before smoothing his napkin back in his lap. When he sets his sights on me, I want to hide. “And what about you, Eli? I hear tell that your yestereve’s sowing of the loins was quite fruitful.”

“Then maybe you should get your ears checked.” I find myself using a single tine on my fork to pierce the yolk of my egg. I watch it erupt like Mount Vesuvius and trickle slowly toward the crusted border of my wheat toast.

“Don’t try to put one by me. Nick already mentioned a particular gentleman that had his eye and hands on you. Just because I was busy slaving away at a Bat Mitzvah on Long Island teaching frizzy-haired tweens the cha-cha slide doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to hear all the juicy details.” “Don’t make a fuss,” I beg. “Like all the ones who came before and didn’t cum, he’s not worth the saliva.” I had hoped this subject could stay buried in the dirt where it belongs. I don’t want Hunter to know that there are other men, especially when he seems so pleased to find out that there are.

“Don’t let him fool you, Hunt,” Nick says. “I caught this one sucking face before Big Dick Rick dragged me back to our place by my short curlies. Eli’s guy was a real looker, too.”

“Ok, fine,” I say, exasperated, “I don’t know what lies Nick told you, but I’m happy to sprinkle some truth. I’m sure our Lady made mention that this gentleman was a few years outside the boundaries of my ethically permissible age bracket. Still, he had a smile like a small town weatherman and I knew from the moment he beckoned me from across the crowded room that he was going to pick up my tab. As you may have noticed, I’m in no position to turn down the company of moderately handsome men nor the free cocktails they’re willing to supply.”

Nick and Hunter share a smirk so I take off my glasses and clean them with the napkin in my lap. Any excuse to look away.

“He told me off the bat that he was only in town for a few days. He was visiting the city with his sister and her kids to show them Central Park and the Guggenheim, that kind of shit. It didn’t faze me that we were two ships passing as long as his intention was to dock in my port. He said he had his own room at the W Hotel so I let him tell me I was beautiful even though it didn’t sound sincere. He got totally shit-faced, enough so that I told him I’d put out if he bought me a pony. I figured he must have money because he didn’t flinch before asking, ‘What color?’ Naturally, when somebody offers to buy you a rainbow pony, you oblige as they swirl their tongue in your mouth like you’re a cup of Jell-O pudding.”

I don’t hesitate to tell the Ladies every salacious detail. “He felt so big pressed against me. When he finished nibbling on my ear, he whispered how he wanted to take me back to his room. He wanted to sit on the edge of the bed so I could mount him like a bronco. My cock on his stomach and his tongue in my mouth, he wanted his hands cupped around my ass – to, ‘spread me open to push deeper inside.’ Go ahead and smell my neck. His stink of Aqua di Gio still hasn’t washed off a full night’s sleep later.”

Nick and Hunter clap like seals while I stand with my nearly empty bucket of fish. This patented brand of bullshit is exactly what brunch is for. But something about last night was different. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to laugh with the Ladies about feeling like Judy Holiday in Bells are Ringing. But that’s the show they paid for, so that’s the show I’m obligated to perform.

Nick offers excitedly, “All I can say is that I hope for your sake he was a better fuck than Big Dick Rick.”

“I wouldn’t know,” I reply.
“Why in blue blazes not?” asks Hunter, his nose crinkled like I farted at the table.

“Because I didn’t fuck him. It wasn’t until I felt his hand on my crotch that I realized he was wearing a ring. Now, I’m no Oda Mae Brown, but I could see in a psychic flash that his ‘sister’ was his ‘wife’ and those ‘nephews’ were his ‘sons.’ I walked out of the bar while he was in the bathroom, grateful that I could still close that door without having had to open up my heart.” Their conciliatory groans make me wish instead that I was telling them about how I’d finally met the one, how I plan to settle down with the pleasant forecast of my husband’s weatherman smile, where there was only enough rain for the grass to grow so my rainbow pony had something to munch in the backyard. But I suppose it was my own fault to have kissed him like he was worth the fantasy of wanting something more.

“So, as it turns out,” I add, “I wasn’t special enough to be his one and only. Hell, I wasn’t even special enough to be his only one.”

“I can’t believe he was married,” Hunter says.

“And to a woman no less,” replies Nick. He scratches at the stubble on his collarbone while searching impatiently for the waitress to drop off the check.

It’s obvious that I’ve led them down the wrong path. They have forgotten what to say when I’m not yet ready to laugh at my own misery. Wanting to cheer the mood, I limp to the punchline. “I guess the moral of the story is: I’m not getting a rainbow pony.”

“Or a married stallion for that matter.” When Hunter says this, he imbues confidence that I can do better, even if it’s not him. He knows as well as I do that the old man last night wasn’t worth my time. And when Hunter reaches across the table to touch my arm, I can’t help but agree. The connection makes me shiver, and not just because I have to pee. That tremor takes with it all traces of the promise I made to myself this morning at 9:43.

Nick raises his champagne flute that still has a sip of mimosa remaining. The pulp from the orange juice is cemented in flecks around its rim. “Let us take from Eli’s tale of woe a reminder: on the bright side, we’re all going to die alone.”

“Here, here,” I say, tongue planted so firmly in cheek that it nearly presses through to the other side.

Hunter does not budge. “I will not lift a glass until someone says something nice. Knowing how I remain the bachelor most eligible to invoke optimism, I’d like to offer that we will always have each other.”

“Those are my options…?” I reply, “Dying alone, or always having each other? Side by side they’re tough to tell apart.” Hunter shoots a look that means I’m supposed to shut the fuck up. I raise my glass to the inspiring agony of maintaining the status quo. When I drink, I swallow hard.


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