Pretty Dudes: The Novel

The Curse

Curses are real. Jay presses his palms onto the minivan’s headliner. I can prove it, but I really shouldn’t have to. We’ve each seen how curses can impact someone’s life.

Here we go, Ellington mutters from the middle seat where he sits shirtless. (You don’t mind, do you? he had asked the driver, who of course the fuck did not.) His freshly ironed button-up hangs on a hanger next to him.

Ellington keeps a stash of clothes in Alexander’s closet, since Alexander cycles through the same few t-shirts and pajama pants. Whenever Ellington decides to stay over or ride out with us, he has nearly half of his wardrobe at his immediate disposal.

I’m in the back with Jay, sandwiched between him and Alexander. Jay’s leg is thrown over mine and now he drops one of his arms on the seat behind me, leaning forward intently.

I’m not being religious and I’m not saying that I buy into any of that mystic mumbo jumbo shit. You believe in blessings, right?

Of course, Ellington says. "I am religious."

There’s a balance, right? Good things happen, bad things happen. Circle of life and all that fuckshit. In fact, I’d take it farther. I say curses are usually disguised in the form of blessings. Take us for example.

What, we’re cursed? I ask.

Don’t sound surprised. Think about it. We are the motherfucks who are the living proof that there’s a cost to being a cosmetic genetic.

A cost, I repeat.

What’s a ‘cosmetic genetic?’ Sunji asks, sitting across from Ellington. If the driver had been attractive, Sunji and Ellington would have battled over the passenger seat. Instead, we are all grouped together behind her and the driver was probably better for it.

A pretty boy, Alexander says. Am I right?

Yeah, pretty boys, Jay says. Or make it gender neutral. We call each other ‘dude’ all the time. Pretty dudes.

I turn to Alexander. Is ‘dude’ a gender-neutral term?

You’re asking too many questions, Jay tells me. And, yes. How long have you been in California?

Don’t call me pretty, Ellington says.

You are pretty, though, Sunji responds. So am I. Jay’s not, so I don’t know why he’s saying ‘we’ and ‘us.’

Take your boy Sunji Spencer here, Jay says to me. "If you wanna be real pretentious, the pretty dude species is bellus abundantia."

No one wants to be pretentious, Ellington interrupts. Just you.

Jay continues. "Sunji is of the subspecies adonis ignoramus."

"What does adonis ignoramus mean?" Sunji asks.

All beauty, no brains, Jay replies.

I resent that, Sunji says. I’ve got brawn. See? You forgot one.

That you do, Jay agrees, and Sunji grins.

"I’m a brawny bellus," he says proudly, and I’m positive that Sunji’s only going to take away mismatched parts of this conversation. I’m also sure that I hear our driver laughing up front.

So, Sunji’s a himbo, Alexander says. No surprise there, but what about Ellington?

Jay frowns, giving the illusion that he’s deep in thought.

Not to encourage any of this, I say, but ‘himbo?’ Why do we gender words unnecessarily like that makes it catchier?

Calling him a bimbo insinuates that I’m feminizing him, Alexander says, which in turn insinuates that femininity is a negative trait. Also calling him a himbo rightfully paints this entire conversation as the ridiculousness that it is.

I nod. Fair. I silently offer him a breath mint. When he refuses, I make another offer, bugging out my eyes until he takes two.

Jay speaks now. "Ellington’s subspecies is more familiar: handsum harlata. Still subject to the curse."

You’re calling me a man-whore?

That would be an insult to us whores, Jay says.

A harlot is literally a prostitute.

"Harlata is Latin."

"Harlata is a word you made up."

Then why are you offended?

Okay, then, Ellington says evenly, what is my subspecies exactly? Colloquial terms.

I see a familiar glint in Jay’s eyes when he replies, Community dick.

Sunji’s mouth makes that perfect circle as his eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.

Ellington breathes evenly. Okay. Okay. At least you called me handsome.

After a moment, I remember to exhale. Sunji is whipping his eyes to me and I think he was expecting to witness a fight, as well.

What about you? I ask Jay. What’s your subspecies?

"I’m beefy beefiata, or abrasive muscle, or—"

You’re basically an asshole, Ellington says.

Jay shrugs. Hey, you call me an asshole, I become an asshole, so you’re welcome.

Karma’s an asshole, too, Alexander says through a refreshing wave of mint.

"Alexander, I’ve got a subspecies for you: aryan basic."

Okay, calm down, Alexander mutters, adjusting his glasses.

Jay leans around me. You don’t tell me to calm down.

Wait, there’s a flaw in your theory, I interrupt. If we’re cursed because of our looks, how does that affect Alexander? He lives in the den. He orders all his food through delivery apps. The only people he sees are us.

You said it, Jay says, sitting back. He avoids the curse by remaining single.

And gaming, Sunji adds.

And gaming, Jay nods. Always gaming.

Okay, do Zario, Sunji says, the only person buying into Jay’s concept.

Oh, I know Zario’s, Alexander says. "The bellus babyfice."

Damn right. See also: homo-gay, Jay cracks.

Ellington nods as our driver pulls over into an alleyway, using it as an unloading zone. See also: local Helen of Troy.

Sunji nods, turning to me. You are a beautiful, beautiful man. I’m not into guys, but if I was, I’d be into you, you know what I’m saying? To the hilt.

You say that like once a month, Jay says. You should just fuck him.

No, thanks, I say.

Oh, you’d be thanking me, Sunji says, wiggling his eyebrows.

I glare at Jay, who shrugs and bites back a laugh.

We pile out of the vehicle and say our thanks to the driver. Ellington takes his electric pink shirt down from its hanger and Sunji slips on his leather jacket. I’m wearing pink, too, but mine is more muted than Ellington’s. Jay’s busting out of the blue v-neck he was wearing when I met him, and Alexander’s shirt is blue and striped and wrinkled and definitely the best he can do. Four of us are wearing stylish black jeans and I’m happy with where mine cling.

I feel like this whole conversation is why people judge you guys, Alexander says, picking lint from his khakis, which is like trying to empty a lake by spoonfuls.

Ay, you’re one of us by default, Ellington says, unbuttoning the top of the gamer’s polo shirt. You’re white with blue eyes and abs. You’re customary-hot. Taylor Swift wrote a song about you.

‘Style’ is a song about white supremacy, I affirm. Plus, Lorde’s song ‘Royals’ is a song about cultural appropriation from an ally’s perspective.

I heard you playing both of those songs within the last week, Jay says.

A bop is a bop, I say. Don’t come for me.

You’re problematic, Jay grunts.

I won’t deny it.

Jiminy Cricket, Zee. Jay turns to Alexander. We can’t be judged. We’re a product of our entitlement, not the cause of it. It’s not our fault that people bend to our will just because our faces are appealing or our cum gutters are well-defined.

Ellington shakes his head. What’s a cum gutter?

No, I groan as Jay reaches around me, making a ‘v’ at my hips with his hands.

These, he says to Ellington as we begin to clomp across the street.

I don’t have those, I say.

Sunji won’t mind, Jay purrs in my ear.

I pry myself loose. Your fanfiction is uninspired.

The sign above our destination reads The Ungodly Hour, but the neon in the ‘u’ has been burnt out for years and now everyone calls it The Ungodly Whore. The guys love the Whore thanks to the amount of straight women who frequent the spot and also thanks to the amount of gay bartenders. So many of the bars and clubs in WeHo have straight bartenders, hired for their musculature and for being pleasing to the gay eye. The owners of The Ungodly Whore have more of a for us, by us mentality and hire mainly queer employees.

This works in the favor of someone like Ellington, who right now is flashing his commercial-ready grin at the bartender. Based on the flustered response, I’m sure Ellington is going to be drinking free for much of the night.

I begin to suspect that Jay’s onto something with this curse thing as I watch the guys mingle. It seems like a self-replicating blessing to have good looks. It’s pretty privilege, really, but the same mug that gets us into the VIP section also gets us into trouble.

•  •  •

When it comes to examples of oblivious pretty privilege, Sunji’s the lowest hanging fruit. Arguably that obliviousness destroyed his last relationship.

He had met Jerrica Yun on a modeling gig. She was a climber and he had just booked a guest star on a Ryan Murphy series, plus he had irresistible dimples when he smiled a certain way. Dating led to exclusivity and, before long, our main bathroom was her bathroom and we were just lucky to get to use it every once in a while. He cooked exclusively for her, which wouldn’t have been much of a problem if we hadn’t gotten used to him cooking for us. She didn’t have a chance when it came to us liking her. It didn’t help that she had particularly potent intestinal gas and she was a shady crop duster.

One day, as they were primping for a red carpet event, she hit him with a relationship pop quiz, Tamia style.

Sunji, she asked while curling her hair, where was our first kiss?

You should have run then, Jay would tell Sunji later. You already failed if she thought a cross-examination was necessary.

At the time, Sunji was focused on his nipples. He tweezed them before every event, no matter the amount of layers he’d be wearing.

On Wilshire, he mumbled, with his chin pinned to his sternum, after we left the club.

It was Runyon Canyon. Remember? Because your sweat got in my mouth.

He shrugged. If you remembered, why did you ask me?

She doesn’t answer, volleying instead with another question. Can you hand me my perfume?

Sure, he said. Which one?

My favorite, she replied

He handed her one that he had bought her. Not her favorite. Another mark against him.

There you go, babe.

Thanks, she said dryly, placing it on the counter and sliding it against the wall.

What are our plans tomorrow night, again?

We don’t have plans tomorrow night, babe.

Shouldn’t we? she asked him.

Should we? he asked her, looking up from his nipples.

I guess not, she said.

He picked up his electric razor and started working on his pubes.

Sunji, nobody there is gonna see that much of us.

You never know, he said, handing her the razor and staring pointedly at her waistline.

Don’t be disgusting.

Babe, your Venus flytrap is turning into a little shop of horrors, if you know what I mean.

She broke up with him on the way back from the event, counting his faults as he sobbed. The next night would have been their one-year anniversary.

The Pretty Boy Curse. Fatal when you’re an asshole. Even an accidental asshole.

•  •  •

Are you drinking tonight? Jay asks me. He’s got three beers in his hand and I know he’s going to drink two of them if I don’t take one from him.

No, I’m good, I say.

He chugs one, his Adam’s apple practically galloping.

You’ve got skills, I tell him.

You have no idea, he says, looking out over the dancefloor. You’re not dancing. Are you gonna come sit?

He points to where Sunji’s secured the five of us a table.

I might dance a bit.

He stares at me for a moment, smirking. Okay. You know I was kidding about Sunji wanting to fuck you, right?

I’m not even thinking about that.

He waves a beer at me dismissively as he goes to join the model.

•  •  •

It makes complete sense that Jay would be the one to introduce this concept of a beauty curse. It’s probably the only way he can make sense of what happened in his former relationship.

If Jerrica Yun was vapid, Callie Reynolds was shrewd. She was the type who always knew where the cameras were. She was a social media influencer, so it was likely she had paid to ensure the cameras were there in the first place. She picked up on our looks, our coughs, and our silences to the point that we could only talk about her when she wasn’t around. And she made sure to always be around.

What I remember most about Callie was her hair. Not exactly her real hair, just whatever hair she was wearing. I had only seen her real hair once, as far as I know. It was a glistening afro that make her look like an umber angel. I asked her why she wore wigs when her own hair was so amazing and she told me that her hair was too good to be shared with everyone. The gaze she gave me was withering and I never saw her real hair again.

Jay gave me all the details about the day they broke up. He was blindfolded and handcuffed to his bed frame while she straddled him in lingerie. Next to the bed lay a feather boa, a bowl of ice cubes, and a spray can of whipped cream. She covered his face with kisses and stroked his chest with the ice. As his moans grew louder, she sat up.

I can’t do this anymore, Jay.

Wha? He rotated his hips, yearning still. What are you talking about?

She plopped the ice cube in his mouth to shut him up. He chewed it furiously.

You. Me. This! I mean, even when you moan it’s like one of those Herbal Essence commercials.

Babe. What?

He often mentions to me how maddening it was to not be able to see her in this moment, to read her expressions. I tell him that’s probably how she wanted it.

You’re just so fucking pretty! Like, can you not?

Why do I feel like you changed the channel on me just now?

She took a slow breath. In, out. You remember when I posted those pictures of us at Disneyland right after I had gotten that spa treatment?

No?

"All the replies were thirst posts about how good you looked and how great your skin looked. Even my father posted a paragraph about the part in your hair."

Jay struggled with his blindfold while trying to sit up. Callie shifted her weight forward from his hips to his torso to keep him down.

He grappled with the handcuffs, his wrists and ankles rubbing the fuzz from them. Callie, in an effort to distract him I’ve always thought, started kneading his chest.

Shit, she said, even your tits are bigger than mine.

Jay says he started moaning again and that his erection, which hadn’t entirely deflated, began pushing against Callie’s lace, and that’s when she got off of him.

That was it, he told me later that night. She just lifted into the air and was gone.

I’m done, she said, and he heard her putting on her jacket. I’m so done.

Frantic, he cried out, Babe! Callie, can you unlock the cuffs, please? He yanked harder on his restraints. And we can talk about whatever this is? Babe? Babe, there could be an earthquake!

Jay is deathly afraid of earthquakes. He’ll own up to it, but it’s obvious anyway. It shows up in moments of extreme stress. I think it’s his deep-seated fear about life on the west coast. He’s from the midwest. Michigan, I think.

The kicker? Callie posted about the end of the relationship before she even left the room. Over three thousand likes before she got to her car.

When you realize you should have left months ago. #iaintsorry

I think she had it waiting in her drafts.

•  •  •

We give each other crap for not liking each other’s partners, but when the breakups come, we all feel validated. That may or may not be fair, as most exes seem terrible once the relationship ends.

Zario?

Speak of the motherfucking fuckhole devilfuck.

I turn to see the only other guy in the club as tall as me. His skin is golden beige, his shoulders strain at his shirt seams, and his eyes are devouring me with a fervor. It’s not lust that brings a smile to his pink-brown lips. It’s the allure of scandal.

I haven’t seen you here since World War Shane! he says, full Regina George.

Hi, Patrick, I say, hoping I’m as casual as he is slimy. I haven’t seen you here since I started looking exclusively at things that were worth my time.

Ellington steps between us, appearing from nowhere. His eyes are flames, pinned on me, but his energy is directed to Patrick.

Zario, he says brightly. Come on. Groove with us, man.

I look and see Alexander, bless his soul, doing a rhythmless bounce and flop, which I think is supposed to be a come hither dance. Ah, yes, his finger is curling repeatedly in my direction. As I head toward him, Ellington turns back to Patrick.

Get the fuck on, I hear him say.

Then I feel Ellington’s hands on my hips as he guides me closer to Alexander.

It’s like one of those scenes from any gay movie where the main character and the closeted guy get shirtless together on the dance floor, but this is no movie. I mean, out of all the dudes, I feel like Ellington’s the one who would go for me if he wanted to experiment. That said, I’m positive that, out of all the dudes, Ellington’s the least likely to experiment. He’s a sexual being, sure, but he’s one hundred percent straight. That said, I throw it back on him as hard as I can and make sure to give as good as I get.

After the song ends, Ellington abandons us for a beautiful blonde in a skintight black dress. Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted so long without a woman in his orbit.

That was Patrick, right? Alexander yells over the music. I nod.

Watching Alexander bop to Beyoncé, I think about how distinctly un-sexual he is. It’s easy to overlook his attractiveness when he doesn’t bother to refine it in any way. But Ellington’s right. We live in a world where white is still the accepted default, and Alexander has luminous blond hair and seven-dimensional blue eyes. He doesn’t try because he doesn’t have to try.

I see some of the local queers staring at the two of us with envy. They’d probably have more luck with him than I ever would. If Ellington is one hundred percent straight, Alexander’s at least eighty, but I’m positive Alexander would go for someone more stereotypically effeminate than myself if he decided to explore his options. Jay would likely go for someone Black or Asian, like all of his girlfriends. And Sunji, well, I’m pretty sure Sunji experiments on the regular (this is as-yet unconfirmed), so I’m probably not his type, otherwise I would have gotten an invitation by now, especially with all the fucking he was doing after breaking up with