Free Now and Yesterday by Stephen Greco Page B

back to the audience; she bent over, hiked up her skirt, and revealed a mammoth vulva, lovingly articulated, puppet-style, in quilted pink satin and tufts of shiny black ribbons. The lips moved, of course—somehow Tyler was working them. With her vagina the lady lip-synched the aria “O Mio Babbino Caro.” Afterward, the lady stood up again, smoothed her skirts, and bowed.
    The crowd went wild. They applauded madly, then the DJ went back to the Rico’s house groove.
    â€œYou were awesome,” said Peter, when Tyler came bounding up to him, half an hour later.
    â€œI was? Did you like me?” Tyler gave Peter a peck on the cheek. The boy was in jeans, T-shirt, and a scarf—far more casual than Peter had ever seen him. And he smelled both sweaty and clean.
    â€œBrilliant,” said Peter. ‘The best singing vagina I’ve ever seen.”
    â€œIsn’t the costume amazing? I want you to meet Mandy—she’s the genius behind Davidsbündler. She’ll be out in a second.”
    â€œI kinda actually better get going, Ty,” said Peter. “It’s late.”
    â€œOh, no you don’t, mister,” said Tyler, playfully. “You have to have a drink with me.”
    â€œThe most amazing thing happened to me, just before you went on,” said Peter, when they were at the bar. “Some girl came up and asked me if I was gay.”
    â€œWas she into you?”
    â€œNo. It was for her boyfriend. She said he thought I was hot.”
    â€œAre they still here?” said Tyler, looking around. “I wanna see.”
    â€œI don’t know where they went.”
    â€œWas he hot?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œI’m jealous.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œTyler.”
    â€œNo, really,” said the boy, getting closer and attempting to plant another, more serious kiss.
    Peter noticed a couple of other men standing nearby—gay and somewhat older, too, than the rest of the crowd. They saw the attempt at a kiss and appeared to find it charming.
    â€œNo, c’mon—we’re not doing this,” said Peter, pushing Tyler away gently.
    â€œWe’re not?”
    â€œNo. Are we?”
    â€œ Are we?”
    â€œNo. But you know I adore you and think you’re the biggest star in the universe.”
    â€œWell . . . OK,” said Tyler, pretending to pout. He took a sip of his drink and surveyed the crowd. “Oh, there’s Mandy,” he said suddenly, grabbing Peter’s hand. “Come with me.”
    In fact, Peter had lots of affection for Tyler and was not unresponsive to the boy’s feelings for him. But even more important than his well-publicized scruples—which were, in fact, newly minted, dating to the time when his agency was sold to the conglomerate—Peter was lonely, he was looking for love. He had increasingly little inclination toward hookups with cuties, friendships with benefits, even harmless, romantic flings intended to go nowhere. Not that the light sexual recreation that had become a vernacular for Tyler’s generation wasn’t entertaining; it was . It was just that Peter was looking for a mate, hard-core, and Tyler, he knew, was not.
    Â 
    Jonathan called the next day to say he was starting treatment—a bout of chemo, followed by radiation. It would take a few weeks, and then he and the doctors would see where things were at. The survival rate for his scenario was not good, Jonathan said. Fewer than a third of patients were still alive after five years.
    â€œOK—a third,” said Peter, with optimism in his voice.
    â€œThose are appalling odds,” countered Jonathan. “But there it is.”
    â€œStill.”
    â€œThe idea is to keep it from going to places like the lungs and the brain, which it apparently wants to do.”
    â€œOoof.”
    â€œSo we’re going to nuke the hell out of it.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œAnd