From Chapter One

Capital Queers
An Excerpt from Chapter One

By Fred Hunter

I don't like dogs. Actually, it's not that I don't like them, I'm just not what dog lovers insist on calling a "dog person." This is their way of saying that I'm somehow sadly shortchanged in the gene pool and am missing one of the essential joys of life -- like having a perky bundle of fur sticking its cold nose in my crotch at four in the morning.

My husband, Peter Livesay, is a dog person and my mother, being British, has a relationship that borders on telepathic with all canines. It was for this reason that custody of a five-year-old West Highland Terrier named Muffin fell to us when our friends Mason LaPere and Ryan Morton went to Washington, D.C. to attend a festive gay-pride parade. Mother spent the week teaching Muffin some much-needed manners (since he came from an over-indulgent home) and I spent the week removing the hems of my pants from his teeth.

I was less than sorrowful when Mason and Ryan returned, and I was looking forward to the dinner they were throwing for us by way of thank you. Actually, I was looking forward even more to delivering the nappy-haired little mongrel back into their hands. Mother begged off the dinner, claiming that she'd be glad to have a little time to herself, away from the three of us (she was already lumping the dog in with Peter and me.) Personally, I suspect she'd become attached to the thing, and though she knew there was never any possibility of our keeping him, she was a little too sad about it to want to face handing him over.

"Will you hurry up?" I said impatiently to Peter as he brushed his wavy hair for what seemed like the fifth time. Peter's not really vain, but he pays an awful lot of attention to his hair.

"Just can't wait to give over little Muffin, can you?" he said, his reflection smiling at me in the bathroom mirror. "Do you really hate him that much?"

"I don't hate the dog -- it's his name. What were they thinking of? They branded him for life. Like people who name their sons Lance, and then expect them to be straight."

Peter laughed as he laid down his brush and took one more look at himself in the mirror. I marveled once again at the contrast between us: Peter's olive skin as opposed to my fairness, his very dark brown hair next to my blondness, and his natural clam next to my perennial fidgeting. It's his serenity that amazes me the most, especially because, ever since we became part-timers for the CIA, I've certainly given him enough to fidget about.

"What are you so nervous for?" he said. I noticed for the first time that his expression had turned to concern.

"Nothing," I said, leaving the bathroom. Peter followed, switching off the light behind us.

"Is it because of Mason?"

I stopped in my tracks. I guess that's what comes from being an old married couple. Peter sometimes demonstrates that he knows me so well it makes me comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.

"In a way, but not like you think," I replied.

"I wasn't thinking anything bad. I just thought it was because of his HIV."

When he came right out and said it, it sounded bad.

"But it's not what you think," I repeated anxiously.

"Honey, I know you're not afraid of people with HIV. You've certainly been around them enough. What makes Mason different?"

"I don't know. I think it's because I've known him so long -- I don't understand what's going on with him, and it makes me nervous."

"How do you mean?"

I sucked in my lips for a second or two, trying to think of how to put it. "Have you noticed that he never really says anything about it? I mean, about his condition."

Peter shrugged. "He probably discusses it with Ryan."

"Yeah, but I've known him for years. When I'm around him now I feel like there's a rhino in the room and we're all pretending it's not there. I don't know, I feel like grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Do you understand that?"

Peter's green eyes surveyed my face lovingly for a moment before he said, "Yes, I do. But you know he has to deal with his illness in his own way and in his own time."

"Yeah, I know. So do I. And someday I might have to say something to him about it." Peter's forehead creased just slightly. I smiled at him and added, "But not tonight."

"Good boy," he said, giving the upper part of my back a quick rub with his palm. Then, trying to lessen my anxiety, he added, "You know, I think what's really worrying you is the prospect of seeing Mason's collection again."

I heaved an exaggerated sigh, rolled my eyes, and said, "Oh, please, God, spare us! And don't you say anything that'll get him started on the subject, either."

Peter smiled and began to whistle "Oh, You Beautiful Doll" as we descended the stairs. I was just about to smack the side of his head when I spotted Mother by the door, beaming down at the dog who gazed back up at her with sparkling eyes, his tail wagging so violently I expected his ass to lift off the ground. Mother has that effect on most men. Around the dog's neck was a tacky rhinestone necklace that Mason had bought for him because he said it made the dog look like Zsa Zsa Gabor. The weird part was that it did.