S H A D E S

Sticks and stones...

"I can't believe I let you talk me in to wearing this," I said, plucking at the skintight golden sheath. Cut from bust to knee, it was tasteful yet wickedly sexy in the way it hugged, cupped and molded to every inch like a second, liquid gold skin.

"The plum was cute, babe, but this is stellar," Paul insisted, clinking his fourth vodka martini against mine, a ploy to kill time since we were about an hour early for dinner. So far we were neck in neck and with plans to end the night in absolute drunken glee. Perhaps not the wisest decision in the face of the Board of Directors soon to arrive, but sense often shot out the window when alcohol was involved.

"Where did you even get this?" I asked, swiveling lightly in my seat by the bar. "Or the other dozen you'd yanked out and had me model?"

Paul nibbled delicately on an olive. "Don't ask the question if you don't want to know the answer."

Somewhere in the darkest corner of my vodka hazed brain, the pieces snapped together like Lego forming a fascinating picture I hadn't expected to find. Even in my heels, Paul wasn't too far off in height, all legs and slender hips, narrow shoulders and the baby-faced skin of an altar boy...

"Get out!" I giggled, slapping a hand over his arm. "You?"

"Twice a week," he said with a flounce of his hand. "You're looking at Lola Lix. I perform a select number of songs, the fan favorites being 'Whatever Lola Wants', 'I Want to be Evil' and 'Yes sir, I can Boogie'."

"That accounts for all the makeup." I nodded in reflection, recalling the splendor of his goody stash, as he'd called it. Everything from Yves St. Laurent, Clinque, Bobby Brown and, of course, enough Estee Lauder to open up his own store. Endless palettes of shadows and blushes, creams and powers, lipsticks and liners.

Everything a girl could ever need. Or a Queen.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, stirring his drink carefully, a hint of a blush creeping in to his cheeks had nothing to do with the pale pink hue he'd brushed on before we'd left.

"Why should it?"

He shrugged a thin shoulder wrapped in a coral blazer. "I've always been different. I knew that as a child. I can remember being as young as four and knowing, right through to my bones, that I wasn't like other little boys. That I didn't want to be. You can imagine a father's disappointment when his sixteen year-old son comes out of the closet and announces he wants to be a she. Not when your father's one of the most famous Rock drumming icons of the eighties. Talk about a kick to the nut sack."

"Your father is—"

"Was," Paul interrupted. "But once upon a time, yes." Draining the rest of his martini, Paul set down the empty and wiggled a finger at the bartender for another round.

"For a long time I think he hoped I'd...'out grow it', and when I didn't, my father decided enough was enough. And sent me on my way with a pretty little nest egg to buy my own place outright. The only stipulation was that I never, ever contact him or my mother again."

Pity clutched at my heart, but I knew that wasn't want Paul wanted or needed from me, so I clamped down on the urge to offer meaningless platitudes and condolences, offering instead, a willing ear and absolutely no judgment whatsoever as he continued to pour his shattered heart at my feet. 

"How long has it been?"

Fresh martini in hand, Paul sipped long and deep. "Four years tomorrow."

Stunned, my eyes popped wide. "Your birthday? He dumped that on you on your birthday?"

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Paul's lips. "You remembered." He lifted the stir stick laced with a trio of olives, slid one into his mouth. "Hell of a way to celebrate. That's why every year I make it a point to be as big and bold and lavish as I can. I surround myself with as much friends and laughter as possible, so later, when the party ends and the friends leave, I don't give in to that snide, evil little voice that says you're a useless piece of shit, Paul Loduca, kill yourself."