Free The Home For Wayward Ladies by Jeremy Blaustein Page A

word “free” in New York, so I was made to deflect a ceaseless stampede of the Give-Me-Mores. I’ve never felt so popular and, now that I have, I’m willing to reconsider my priorities left over from middle school.
     
    On my way home, I venture through the unholy land past the bodegas that make me feel foolish for having taken French in high school, but I suppose, “c’est la vie.” I wearily approach our front door. My nerves are more jangled than the bells on Santa’s sleigh. I center my breathing and steady my hand before I can manage the key into the lock. It is a Saturday night and I am hoping that Eli and Nick are anywhere but home. It would be wonderful to have the apartment to myself. That way I can take a long shower without fear of interruption. Anyway, my Ladies should be out being their usual promiscuous selves, otherwise, what would they have to complain about at brunch tomorrow morning?
     
    I am annoyed to see the lights on through the peephole, which sends a flare that silence is not in store. When I push through, I am confronted by the raucous strains of Bette Midler. She’s singing something melancholic that somehow maintains a disco beat. Nick is obviously here, but he doesn’t seem to be alone. Rather, he is accompanied by a voice that I don’t recognize. Seeing as I cannot place it, it cannot belong to anyone that Nick has slept with before; Nick’s room is between mine and Eli’s so we too share a bedroom wall. That means I can typically identify his partners by how their timbre makes my pictures wobble.
     
    I aim to march to my bedroom and close the door forever. I need time to prepare myself for the agony that will be another tomorrow. I am scheduled to waste my afternoon teaching an unruly four-year-old how to twirl batons for her upcoming pageant.  Not only is she too portly to pull off glitz, but she is also a swine in the personality department. I know; it’s our second appointment. Last week, every time she dropped her baton-- which would have been less often had I covered it in peanut butter --she would sit back on her haunches and wait for me to fetch the damn thing. I can’t help but think that my time would have been put to better use had I trained her grandmother to use that baton as a weapon while that little piggy was draped over her knee. It may sound barbaric, but my parents spanked me and I turned out just fine. Well, fine enough. Now, if I could only get past Nick and whoever he’s about to fellate in our living room, I can spend the evening scrubbing my skin until it bleeds.  
     
    Nick is sitting on the floral print sofa that my parents donated to our cause. There is a half-empty bottle of wine poured between two glasses. He himself is poured into the lap of a tall, well-dressed man whose pompadour rivals that of Elvis Presley. I try to tiptoe by. The creak of the floorboards gives my presence away.
     
    “Hunter is home!” Nick brays, removing his hands from the beautiful stranger’s inner thigh so he can clap them with delight. “Hunter, meet Danny. Danny and I were just discussing the show I told you about this morning. You remember, right?”
     
    “Of course,” I reply, “where you rip off Bette Midler’s act and call it an homage.”
     
    Not knowing which parts of Nick his new beau’s hand has already explored, I would rather not shake it as it is extended toward me. I do hate to risk contamination. However, being Southern, my social graces prevail. I reciprocate. His grip is firm, which it will need to be if he plans to keep Nick stable. Still, Nick must have thought this Danny fellow was somebody worthwhile otherwise he wouldn’t have spent the money on that fancy-looking bottle of wine. 
     
    “Danny brought the wine,” Nick says. “Isn’t he spectacular?”  
     
    “He appears to be just that,” I laugh, trying to appear coy but wanting nothing more than to be excused so I can wash all the parts of me that have skin. I take note of