Too Sexy for Tweed
This is post 10 of Section I. To begin at the beginning, go here.
Bennett found that he could not help comparing Jack with his straight son-in-law, Gregory, especially after he found out that Jack was a college professor—teaching Classics at nearby Enders University. It was somehow unnerving to Bennett to see Jack’s face light up as they discussed Horace, and Schubert, and Rembrandt. Damn it, the girl was supposed to marry the father figure. And the gays were supposed to be campy, but it was Gregory—leather-loving, smooth-talking, ever so slightly supercilious yet still coolly p. c.—who gave the impression of a good actor on an off night. Bennett could come to no better resolution of such conundrums than another martini.
Stephen gave the split pea soup in a bread bowl a miss. When he emerged, halfway through the stuffed tortellini in pesto sauce, Jack looked at him expectantly. “Did you make the call?”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Yes. O. k.?”
Jack rolled his eyes back and stage whispered an explanation. “Seventh-grade dance. Serena Mayfield, the only thirteen-year-old girl I have ever seen who is built like a cello, has agreed to allow my son to escort her, provided he does not embarrass her with any of Dad’s ‘gay’ dancing, which, according to Stephen, means feet must be nailed to floor, hip gyration minimal.”
Stephen blushed to the tips of his ears. “Dad,” he said, stabbing his fork at him. “You’re too sexy for your tweed.”
There was a general laugh. “So he’s not an f-word,” Bennett thought, and then allowed his attention to be diverted by the way the pesto flavor complemented the martinis. He drained his glass and sampled the Orvieto wine, which was also very good.
Continue
Bennett found that he could not help comparing Jack with his straight son-in-law, Gregory, especially after he found out that Jack was a college professor—teaching Classics at nearby Enders University. It was somehow unnerving to Bennett to see Jack’s face light up as they discussed Horace, and Schubert, and Rembrandt. Damn it, the girl was supposed to marry the father figure. And the gays were supposed to be campy, but it was Gregory—leather-loving, smooth-talking, ever so slightly supercilious yet still coolly p. c.—who gave the impression of a good actor on an off night. Bennett could come to no better resolution of such conundrums than another martini.
Stephen gave the split pea soup in a bread bowl a miss. When he emerged, halfway through the stuffed tortellini in pesto sauce, Jack looked at him expectantly. “Did you make the call?”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “Yes. O. k.?”
Jack rolled his eyes back and stage whispered an explanation. “Seventh-grade dance. Serena Mayfield, the only thirteen-year-old girl I have ever seen who is built like a cello, has agreed to allow my son to escort her, provided he does not embarrass her with any of Dad’s ‘gay’ dancing, which, according to Stephen, means feet must be nailed to floor, hip gyration minimal.”
Stephen blushed to the tips of his ears. “Dad,” he said, stabbing his fork at him. “You’re too sexy for your tweed.”
There was a general laugh. “So he’s not an f-word,” Bennett thought, and then allowed his attention to be diverted by the way the pesto flavor complemented the martinis. He drained his glass and sampled the Orvieto wine, which was also very good.
Continue
posted by Hobbes at 8:14 PM
10 Comments:
Too sexy for your tweed. That was cute. Stephen is straight. Gregory is straight. Jack is a likable gay. Maybe Stephen is sort of metrosexual, but maybe just a regular guy influenced by his gay daddy. Ed gave me a bad first impression, so it might take a while to like him.
That's o. k. Ed's a bit of a misanthrope. I'm glad you're still giving this a try.
Very cute. The boy speaks, French, though. Benett shouldn't be so sure of himself.
I got a picture of Ed Bennett!
I saw that. Great job, Dusty.
I love misanthropes.
Nice title weird one.
There is no such thing as a metrosexual.
Alice: No wonder you stuck around this long.
Thanks. It's funny sticking titles on every few paragraphs of what was a continuous narrative.
I never really understood that term.
"good actor on a bad night" ... that's acute. xoxo
Thanks Mireille. Nice to see you here.
Hey, this is great. So glad you posted it online.
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