Page 83 of Boyfriend Material
“And apparently I do it by being a dick.”
“Then”—God, his mouth right now wasn’t stern in the slightest—“you must care for me very deeply.”
“I…” I was actuallydying. I was going to blush myself to death.
“Boys,” bellowed Mum, “we are tired of waiting for you, and we are starting our engines. You do not want to miss the entrances. They are a very important part of the experience.”
We startled away from each other, almost guiltily, and hurried back to the living room.
“Come, come.” Mum waved us onto the sofa. “This is my first viewing party. I am very proud.”
I couldn’t quite imagine anything worse than sitting between my mum and my boyfriend—I mean, my fake boyfriend who I might have accidentally spurted feels onto in the kitchen—on the sofa, while we watchedRuPaul’s Drag Racewith her best friend and four spaniels named after minor royals. So I sat on the floor instead, slightly closer to Oliver’s leg than was probably strictly necessary. Also I didn’t quite have the heart to tell Mum that me, Judy, and Oliver didn’t really add up to a viewing party. We were more like some people watching television.
Apparently Mum and Judy were up to season six already, which shouldn’t have surprised me because, as far as I could tell, Mum and Judy’s standard evening was Netflix and chill, only not a euphemism. At least, I assumed it wasn’t a euphemism. Probably best not think too much about that. They got all of one queen in before the running commentary started, and for the next two full episodes, Judy and Mum were ranking the death drops, making inaccurate predictions about who would go out, and asking us earnestly which boys we thought looked nicest.
Mum paused before episode three autoplayed. “How are enjoying theDrag Race, Oliver? You are not too confused?”
“No,” he said, “I think I’m keeping up.”
“We should probably explain that the woman who does the judging at the end and the man in the workroom at the start are actually the same person.”
I put my head in my hands.
“At the beginning, we thought it was likeProject Runwayand the man at the beginning is like Tim Gunn and the woman at the end is like Heidi Klum. But then Judy realised that they seem to have the same name, and that because it is a show all about men putting on dresses, she probably is actually the same man only in a dress.”
I looked up again. “Nothing gets past you, does it, Mum?”
“Yes,” agreed Oliver, ever polite, “the name did tip me off.”
“Seriously, Oliver,” I asked, nervously, “howareyou finding the show? We can leave at any time. Any time at all.”
He made a hmming noise. “We don’t have to go. I’m enjoying myself. And the show is…interesting.”
“You are so right, Oliver.” Mum turned to him enthusiastically. Odds were about 60/40 in favour of her next line being wildly inappropriate. “I had not known there were so many different sorts of gays. In my day we had Elton John and Boy George, and that was it.”
“Freddie Mercury?” I offered.
Judy’s mouth dropped open. “He was never? But he had a moustache and everything.”
“Famously so, I’m afraid.”
“Well, stone me if you don’t learn something new every day.” She turned to Oliver with a terrifyinglyinterestedlook in her eye. Oh God. “What about you, old man? Have you ever sissied that walk?”
“Do you mean,” he asked, “have I ever done drag?”
“Is that an insensitive question? They’re doing it on TV now, so I assumed it was fine.”
Oliver did his contemplative frown. “I’m not sure I want to set myself up as an authority on what’s insensitive. I mean, for what it’s worth, most people don’t, and I personally never have. It’s honestly not something I see the appeal of.”
There was a small pause.
“Well, it’s all larks, isn’t it?” said Judy. “Like those parties we used to have in the ’50s where the boys would get up in dresses and the girls would get up suits, and then we’d drink far too much fizz, sneak off into the bushes, and do naughty things to each other.”
Oh dear. I was perilously close to using the phrase “it exists on a spectrum” to Mum and Judy. “It’s complicated,” I tried instead. “What’s a lark for one person can be really important for another. And really problematic for someone else.”
“I think for me”—Oliver shifted slightly uncomfortably—“and I should stress I’m speaking entirely personally, I’ve never wholly identified with that particular way of signalling your identity. Which always makes me feel like I’m letting the side down a little bit.”
Mum patted him reassuringly. “Oh, Oliver, that is a sad way to think. I am sure you are one of the best gays.”
