Divas Las Vegas (10 page)

"No, these guys were straight. My gaydar reading was at
zero. Anyway, it was probably nothing. Just some straight
bigoted assholes taking a gander at two fabulous queens."

"So why did you ask me, then?"

"Because they just drove by, and I could've sworn that
they slowed down a tad when they passed. Forget it-I'm
sure it's this insane heat playing tricks on my already fragile
mind."

Luckily we hit the Strip and Caesar's was only midway
up, because I was getting the heebie-jeebies big time, and I
needed a strong drink and a nice slot machine to calm me
down.

Now, are you ready to continue our tour of Vegas hotels?
Here we go...

Caesar's is a grand hotel and casino. It's not one of my
favorites because of the onslaught of tourists who roam
through, snapping pictures and bumping into you, but it is impressive. Outside, you can start walking from one end of it
and many minutes later glance up and see that you still have
a way to go before the end. And, of course, everywhere you
look, inside and out, it's made to have that ancient Roman
feel, with faux columns running from top to bottom. The
statuary and fountains at the entrances are cool as well, if
you're into that sort of thing. But it's the shows inside that
are the true crowd-pleasers.

Like many of the casinos in Vegas, Caesar's also has a
mall attached to theirs, which is always a big plus in my
book. Set up to look like the Roman forum, there's even an
overhead ceiling painted to resemble the sky. And the shops,
which are all first class, are topped with faux buildings that
look like the homes of ancient Rome, replete with statues
and busts. (The face kind, not the bosom kind.) Throw in
the phenomenal Coliseum theater, and you can see how
Caesar's has created a small city unto itself.

The shows I mentioned take place at two of the three
large fountains in the mall. At intervals throughout the day,
the fountains magically come to life. Each of the statues
becomes a living god. Well, at least that's what Caesar's
wants you to believe. And honestly, for, like, the first five
seconds, it's pretty nifty. But then you see how cheesy the
animatronics really are. And the scripts that the shows
follow are just way too insipid. No, the real show is watching
the hordes of tourists running to witness these spectacles.
Some of these people obviously haven't jogged in years; now
they're heaving themselves back and forth between these
two monstrosities, knocking people over, dropping their
food, and pushing their bodies to dangerous limits. Well,
I'm sorry, but that is the real show. Justin and I get there five
minutes before they start just to see if anyone has a coronary. Is that cruel? Probably. In any case, let's move on.

These shows, though, are the fake shows. There's also
a live show, just as cheesy and just as poorly scripted, but equally adored by the tourists: Caesar's court parading
through the casino and the mall. Actually, most of the larger
casinos have something similar to this, but at Caesar's,
the masses really get involved. Photo ops are rampant.
Anywhere you can go and see a six-foot-tall behemoth of a
man dressed like a gladiator, you'll also see a line of people
waiting to take a picture with him. I would love to know
what these guys get paid. Did they go to college and get
a degree, only to end up doing this for a living? Do their
parents brag about their son, the gladiator? Did they have to
slaughter a certain number of lions before they got hired? Or
Christians? (Hey, maybe that would be fun.) Anyway, my
point, and I'm sure I have one somewhere, is that ordinary
people's ideas of entertainment are really fucked up. Well,
that may or may not have been my point when I started this
tirade, but it is now. So here comes the bitter irony.

When Caesar himself makes an appearance, all hell
breaks loose. It's like, all of a sudden, these backwater
hicks become the paparazzi. Disposable cameras, digital
cameras, pocket Polaroids, every size, shape, and brand of
video camera, they all appear as if by magic to capture the
being of this sham Caesar. It's pathetic, it's demoralizing,
it's... it's...

"Oh, my God, IT'S HIM!!!" shouted Justin.

"Um, you know that's not the real Caesar, right? He'd be
over two thousand years old by now." I think that's about
right. History was never my forte.

"I know, you big idiot. It's him!" Again with the
shouting.

"Dude, tell me what you're talking about, please."

"That man dressed like Caesar is...is...is...oh, my
God, it's Bradley." He fairly whispered the name and then
dropped to his knees.

"Who the hell is Bradl-" I began, and then remembered
who he was.

Bradley, from what I could recall, was the first guy Justin
ever had sex with. Long story short: hot teen sex, followed
by getting caught by parents, followed by never seeing or
hearing from hot teen lover ever again, followed many years
down the line by a twisted, emotionally unstable, relationship-retarded, adult Justin.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

I mean, he has had hundreds and hundreds of men since
then. It would be a miracle if he could recognize the very
first one. Actually, he has problems remembering the ones
he's had sex with from a few weeks prior. Even a few days
is difficult for him. My guess was that it was just wishful
thinking. The man did look awfully stunning in his gladiator costume. And who wouldn't want to have sex with a
guy who has a salad named after him?

Justin kneeled there for a few minutes, regaining his
composure, then said, "I know it's been nearly fifteen years.
I know that this man is fifty pounds heavier, and that his
hair is different, and that his face is fuller, but you never
forget your first. Never. That is definitely Bradley."

"Let's get a closer look, then, to make sure," I
suggested.

In the ten years I'd known him, I had never seen Justin
so nervous or tense. At least nothing like this. Well, there
was that one time he found out that Estee Lauder bought
out Aveda, and his hairdresser would no longer be carrying
his hair gel; that really freaked him out. But then he found
another hairdresser nearby who carried it, and all was fine.
That couldn't hold a candle to this.

Justin looked practically catatonic at my suggestion. I
had to nudge him to respond.

"Oh...okay. We could do that," he said, gulping. Yet he
still didn't move.

"Dude, you're scaring me. This is not the Justin I know,
love, and am terrified of. Snap out of it and go stand over there by the fountain so we can get a better look." He
reluctantly obeyed. We sat down on the edge of a fabulous
chariot-driven fountain and stared. And stared. And then
stared some more.

"Um, dude, is it or isn't it him?"

"Again, I'm almost sure that it's him. Every hair on my
body is standing on end, just like that first night fifteen
years ago."

"That must itch like hell, seeing as every hair on your
body is trimmed down to within a millimeter of its life."

"Fucker. This is no time for kidding. That man standing
there might've been my one true love if it wasn't for my
horrible parents interfering." He said it with so much conviction that I actually felt a pang in my heart. The thought that
Justin could actually possess the capacity to love anyone
other than himself was miraculous. The possibility that that
person was standing before us was like winning the lottery
and then getting hit by lightening, twice. (Okay, bad odds
analogy, but you get the point.)

"So go talk to him," I told him.

"No. Why bother? Too much water under the bridge by
now. Besides, I live in San Francisco and he lives in Vegas. I'm
independently wealthy and he's a... well... Let's just say that
Roman dictators were never much my thing. It just wouldn't
work out. Why put myself through that heartache again?"

"Because life is all about taking risks. Because it's better
to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Because
regret is a nasty four-letter word. Because... Because..."

"Oh, please, regret is a six-letter word, just like shut up.
Let's just drop it and get out of here. I need a drink or a pill
or something. Okay?" He looked beaten.

"Shut up is two words," I corrected him, hoping to snap
him out of it with some witty banter.

"So is fuck off, now let's go." So much for laughter being
the best medicine.

"Fine, whatever," I conceded, getting up and walking
away with him.

But first I had one last-ditch, sneaky trick up my sleeve.
Just as we were walking past Caesar and his retinue, I
pushed Justin. My friend went careening past the admiring
throngs and right into the emperor himself, causing both to
fall to the ground. It sounded like almighty Zeus himself
had thrown a terrible thunderbolt to the earth, what with
Caesar's heavy armor crashing to the marble floor and all.

The crowds ran over to see what the commotion was. I
followed, not wanting to miss the grand reunion from up
close.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so sorry," Justin apologized,
crimson in the face, as he rose precariously from where
he had landed. "I must have tripped," he added, searching
the crowd for yours truly. I ducked behind an obese elderly
woman who had stopped to take a picture of the scene while
she ate a monstrously huge cup of gelato.

"Oh-it's no problem," replied Caesar, struggling to
get up. The breastplate alone must've weighed ten pounds.
"These things hap-" he paused when he saw Justin, but
quickly regained his composure "-pen."

Justin helped him to his feet, apologized again, and slunk
back into the crowd. I intently watched Caesar's face to see if
there was even a hint of recognition as Justin walked away,
but the rest of Caesar's entourage had arrived and encircled
him, and my view was obscured. Damn.

And, uh-oh, Justin had found me huddling behind the
fat woman's enormous ass and was headed over. (Not a
pretty picture, is it?)

"Oops," I said, in my defense, as he swooped in for the
kill.

"Oops? Oops? Is that the best you can come up with?"
he shouted at me.

If we hadn't been surrounded by tourists, I'm sure he would have beaten me to a pulp. But instead, he walked on
by and headed for one of the mall exits. Definitely not the
Justin I knew. The Justin I knew would have walked on up to
Caesar and planted a big wet one on his face. Crowds or no
crowds. Still, what did I know? I never had a young love. Or
an unrequited love. Maybe a young heart breaking is more
fatal than when your heart breaks and you're tough enough
to make it through the pain. I did know this, however: Justin
seemed devastated. It was a hard thing to behold.

I caught up to him and apologized. "I'm sorry, dude. Just
trying to help,"

"I know, Em, but please just let it go. I was hurt once
already. I don't need or want that again. Okay?"

I didn't agree with him, but I said okay. Just then, a lightbulb flashed above my head. "Hey, I think I know a place
that will cheer you up."

"Do they serve booze?" he asked.

"Don't think so." Strike one.

"Do they have cruisy bathrooms?" he asked.

"Doubtful." Strike two.

"Do they encourage recreational drug use?" he asked.

"Definitely not." Strike three.

"So how on earth would this place cheer me up?

"Outlandish clothes, enormous diamonds, and gaudy on
top of gaudy everywhere." Home run! (I know, three strikes
and you're out, but we were playing by my rules, and I was
still up there swinging.)

Twenty minutes later, we were at the Liberace Museum:
Nevada's gay mecca.

In actuality, the museum is in a run-down mall, miles
from the Strip. Even calling it a museum is pushing it. And
yet, despite the tragic surroundings, the place is utterly too,
too fabulous.

Liberace, in my humble opinion, was a genius. How no one pegged him as the big old queen he was, I have no idea. I
guess it was just the times and all. But make no bones about
it, Liberace was the granddaddy of all poofs. A megaqueen,
if you will. And his remaining artifacts are testament to
that fact.

Honestly, I had an entirely new admiration for the man
by the time we had oohed and aahed our way through
the place. Yes, he played a mean piano. Yes, he was a true
showman. Yes, he could spend a wad of cash at the drop of
a hat. But what got to us was how such a drab, unattractive
mamma's boy could pull it all off, and so well at that. I felt
that if he could do it, there was hope for me yet. And I think
Justin was stunned that there was someone out there who
was equally fabulous to himself. I say equally because Justin
would never even consider someone being more fabulous.
The biggest kicker of all was that this flaming queen was
loved and adored by millions and millions of straight people
worldwide. He was easily the Madonna of his day. How
amazing is that?

We left there in high spirits and with renewed vigor.

"God bless the queen," I shouted as we walked back into
the heat.

"Amen, sister," Justin replied.

"I'm sorry for pushing you into Caesar," I said as we
boarded the bus back to the Strip, carefully avoiding the use
of cabs now when at all possible. "Do you forgive me?"

"Hmm, we'll have to see about that," he replied, devilishly.

"Wh-what does that mean?" I stammered.

"Let's just say that I forgive you for now, but I reserve
the right to get even with you at a later date."

"If it keeps you in this good mood, okay. But please
remember that best friends let these things slide every now
and again. You know, unretaliatory-like."

"Dude, what planet have you been living on? Does that sound anything like me?"

"Nope, but I thought I'd give it a shot."

"Nice try. Now let's go back to our hotel. I need a nap
before my big evening with Jacques."