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“Your doctor knows you’re gay?”
“He does now.”
“Daniel?”
“Yeah?”
“I miss you,” I whispered, feeling silly. I’d seen him just yesterday, but I’d wanted to be back in his presence, if not his arms, from the moment I left him and Milky Way on the front steps of his house.
“Me too.” A sharp bark sounded in the background at his end. “Little Miss Milky Way wants to go out back. Talk tomorrow?”
I frowned and calculated. “I’ve got work and classes, and a test the next day, but yeah. I want to talk to you if I can. It might be late, though.”
“If not tomorrow, then the next day.”
“Definitely.”
“Later, baby.”
Baby!
I wanted to twirl around the kitchen, dance on my tiptoes, sing and throw confetti. Instead, I said, “Later.”
***
Tuesday afternoon, asI strolled through the UC, I stopped and pulled out my camera to snap some photos of a few cute couples holding hands and some eager football fans already waiting in line for a chance at student tickets.
Exiting into the September sun, I stopped in my tracks. Minty was lying down in the middle of the courtyard, wearing a pink tutu skirt over his jeans, and holding a melting ice cream cone above his head. The ice cream dripped down to the tip of the cone and then plopped onto his face. The vision he presented was surreal. And messy. And he’d drawn a small crowd.
As I approached with my camera, I asked a girl, “What’s going on?”
“He says it’s a performance piece.”
“It’s titledCream My Face,” Minty said, opening his mouth wide as five more drops fell from the cone. He caught them all on his tongue.
“Faggot!” someone yelled from across the courtyard.
“No,” Minty replied calmly and much too quietly for the guy to hear. “It’s not titledFaggot.It’s calledCream My Face.”
I shook my head and snapped some pictures, before sitting down a few feet away on a bench to do my Spanish homework. I wanted to make sure Minty made it through his performance in one piece. If he didn’t, Daniel would be upset, and Daniel had enough bullshit in his life.
The crowd around Minty came and went, but over time, the ice cream melted all over his face and neck. It looked sticky, uncomfortable, and too much like cum. When all that remained was the melted-ice-cream-filled cone, Minty said, “Peter? Get your camera ready.”
I rose, aimed, and focused just as he yelled, “Cream my face!”
With a flip of his wrist, he dumped the remaining liquid cream into his wide-open mouth and all over his face. I took a few more pictures.
The people still gathered at the climax applauded and laughed. A few cheered. Some groaned. But nearly all had dispersed by the time he sat up. Gazing around, his expression suggested he felt a strange mix of disgusted and pleased with himself.
“Wow,” he said as I approached with my stuff. “I feel sticky and gross. But admit it, that was awesome.”
“Totally.” I didn’t know if it was, actually, but it was definitely weird.
“Did you get any good pictures?”
“Probably.”
“Cool. I’ll need copies.”
