Prologue and FYI for fairly new readers: Uncle Frank is not my uncle. He's my former roommate and dearest Boo, but he is by no means related to me in any way. Introduction to Uncle Frank, here and here.
Uncle Frank called me yesterday.
"I'm taking you on a fabulous date, tomorrow, honey," he said.
"Where are we going?"
"You deserve a massage for being fabulous."
"Aw, a massage? For me? Awwww... dude, really?
"Yes. You and me, girl. It's going to be fabulous, fabulous, fabulous..."
So this morning Frank picked me up in the Beemer one of his celebrity clients just, like, totally gave him for no good reason other than: he's fabulous! That's why! and whisked me off to a Thai Massage parlor on La Brea for a full ninety-minute rub-down.
Frank and I arrived, excitedly and were promptly guided to our room, which seemed kind of odd at first, but then I just kinda figured THEY figured that Frank was gay and we were BFF so it didn't matter if we got naked in front of one another.
"You take off clothes and lie down and you take off clothes and lie down."
Frank and I stood blinking at each other before I offered to close the curtain between our two beds.
"What you doing? This romantic! You silly girl!" my masseuse gasped, hitting me with a towel playfully.
"What? No! So he can have his privacy..."
"He your husband! You see him naked to make baby in your belly. You see him naked is no big deal. Is good to see naked. Is romantic! I do sensual couples massage for good, happy couple with baby!"
"That's very kind of you but he's not really my husband!" I tried to explain.
Frank jumped in, "We're friends! We're not married. I'm not the baby's daddy..."
"What? You two no make this baby? You are not wife?"
"Well.. I'm SOMEONE's wife but not his... He's my friend."
"I like boys."
"See? And I don't have a penis."
That's when the poor masseuse who was so confused at this point, finally got it. She and everyone else at the parlor burst into hysterical laughter like we were the craziest motha-fuckas in the universe.
Frank and I took our respective bows for being the bearers of such funny.
"Oh, my! You just friend! I thought I do couples massage very sensual!"
"I know. And, really... that's so sweet of you. Maybe next time?"
It was then that I wondered if I had been wrong to say something. Perhaps we should have gone along with the whole "sensual couples massage" thing. Out of sheer curiosity! It might have been kind of funny. Awkward, yes, but hilarious. And what good is life if not uncomfortably hysterical? Oh, well. Maybe next time.
"You two just friend! You no husband! I thought you said you were married, on the phone! I so embarrass!"
"No! It's fine! People think we're married all the time!" I tried to reassure. "Right Frank?"
"Yes! Like that one time... You know. That one time?"
"Yes. I do know. That one time!"
Except, after some thought I remembered that Frank was right! There WAS that one time and until today, I had forgotten all about it. About five years ago, when Frank and I were roommates, we decided to sign up for a shared-account at our local Russian-owned and operated video rental-house (which also housed some of the great post-modern pornographic classics). Frank told the woman behind the counter that we were married: Mr and Mrs. Woolf, respectively and she believed him and gave us one account and two rental cards. I thought nothing of the possible ramifications of our video-union until months later when I was faced with "$18.34 in late fees for AssMen 2, 3 and 4, which your husband rented over three weeks ago and never returned. You pay late fees, now or you cannot rent!"
It would have been all fine and dandy had I not showed up to the counter with a guy I'd just started dating and an obscure new-wave flick I was trying to impress him with.
Hi, my name is AWKWARD and I watch gay porn with the husband I failed to mention!
But I digress... the MASSAGE PARLOR. We're at a massage parlor.
For the duration of the massage, separated by a curtain, Frank and I lay naked side by side, moaning and groaning and howling through our heavenly, often-times rough-n-tumble rub-down, mumbling to one another through the curtain until we both finally passed out, drooling, only to be awakened suddenly with an, "okay. You done."
What, no happy ending?
Ah, but who needs a happy ending when you have a fabulous gay husband to skip down the fabulous puke-stained streets of Hollywood with?