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pink muscle tee. Oh, yes, it was way too tight. He wore them no other way. I guess if I looked like
Justin, I'd dress like that as well. (Or maybe not.) The Bruno
Maglis were off his feet, and a very comfortable-looking
pair of high-tops were running circles around me. They too
were pink, to match the shirt. And, the piece de resistance,
atop his head he wore a very large, and very white, oldlady sunbonnet. The Queen of Las Vegas had apparently
arrived.

    "Voila!" he shouted, modeling his ensemble. "Now
I'm ready. Slathered in sunblock thirty-five and properly
attired."
    "Honey, for Fire Island you're properly attired, but I
seriously doubt that Treasure Island is ready for the likes
of you. You're not really considering walking into a casino
dressed like that, are you?"
    "Just watch me." And he and his luggage were up and
walking, er, sashaying away.
    I ran to catch up, and asked, "So you don't think that
you look just a tad, um...nelly?"
    "Honey, I am not nelly," he insisted, waving his limp
wrist at me. (Obviously, I had my doubts.)
    "What would you call it, then?" I persisted, as we headed
for the airport exit.
    "I'd say I'm...animated."
    "Animated, huh? What's the difference?"
    "I can turn off the nelly whenever I like and be just as
butch as the next guy."
    "Ah, I see. Did you say bitch or butch?"
    "Butch, dear. I said butch."
    "Okay, then. I see your point," I said, dropping it. But
in all the time I'd known Justin he pretty much stayed
animated. He must have saved the butch side for his tricks.
Nevertheless, I let him believe what he wanted to believe.
Besides, what's that saying about casting the first stone?
Personally, I don't have a butch bone in my body and am not interested in acquiring one. It doesn't seem to be doing
straight people any good.

    And then, just a minute after stepping outside into the
searing heat, we were happily planted in the backseat of
a well air-conditioned cab and on our way to the hotel. I
knew that we were there to work, but I couldn't help feeling
excited and eager to do some gamblin' and carousin'. Mary
wasn't going anywhere, I figured. Though, for all we knew,
she wasn't there at all. In either case, I was bound and determined to have a good time. Having Justin as a traveling
companion ensured at least that much.
    "So where are we headed?" asked our cigarette-puffing
cabbie.
    Justin looked at me. I looked at Justin.
    "Well?" we both asked, simultaneously.
    "What?" we both shouted, simultaneously again.
    "You're kidding me." I could tell he wasn't kidding,
though. And the look of horror on my face told him the
same thing.
    "Well?" asked the cabbie, unwrapping a fresh pack.
    "I thought you made all the plans," I whispered to
Justin.
    "No, just the plane tickets, dude. I thought you booked
the hotel," he whispered back.
    "Meter's running," shouted the cabbie, and then took a
deep drag on his cigarette. At that moment I felt like shoving
it down his throat. Damn, I was pissed. In all the confusion of losing my job and becoming semirich, I hadn't even
thought about the hotel. I guess I assumed, incorrectly, that
Justin was taking care of everything.
    "Um, we thought we'd find something when we got here,"
announced Justin, off the top of his head. The cabbie gave
us a laugh that sounded like one lung down, one to go.
    "You guys must be kidding," he rasped. He sounded
very much like a young Harvey Fierstein. (Which sounded just about the same as an old one, mind you.)

    "Urn, no. Is that a problem, driver?" I asked, sensing it
was.
    "You guys ever heard of COMDEX?"
    I had, and I knew what this meant. "No rooms anywhere
in Vegas?" I guessed. (By the by, COMDEX was one of the
largest trade shows in the world at that time, which should
tell you what kind of shit we were now in.)
    "Got that right," the driver croaked, and took another
long draw.
    I turned to look at Justin. He was sitting there thinking.
I shrugged at him and mouthed a "now what?"