The Sweetest Bullshit



"Geoffrey, you cannot possibly be so grotesquely heterosexual. You're in the theatre. Straight boys simply don't enter the theatre, they play hockey. And drink beer." Oliver gesticulated wildly, nearly smacking Ellen in the face with his pint glass.

"They do if they want to meet girls," said Geoffrey, leering at Ellen. "All those lonely, lovely straight women, spending all day in tight costumes, surrounded by men who only have eyes for the cute young interns -- and don't you deny it," he said, raising his voice to cover Oliver's forming protests. "We've all seen you trying to trap Dirk in your office."

"Dick," said Oliver. "And why would I deny it? Such a lovely young man, such a long ... career ahead of him. Of course I want to mentor the dear boy."

Ellen snickered. Usually she'd joined in at this point, but right now she was so snockered she was just watching, wide-eyed and giggly, nursing her own glass.

"I would think," continued Geoffrey, waving his free hand in a gesture that owed more than a little to his soliloquy blocking, "that the gay men would be more inclined to play hockey. Sweaty, muscular, athletic men in jockstraps, bleeding on the ice. No women around --"

"But I love women!" shouted Oliver, throwing his arms around Ellen and splashing her with beer. "I just don't love to fuck them. They're wonderful, delicate flowers of womanhood, adding a touch of class to any occasion. And they don't bleed," he added, with an artful shudder.

"Oliver, you say the sweetest bullshit," said Ellen, and she kissed him full on the lips. Oliver pulled back with a splutter and Geoffrey laughed and walked around the table, dropping down on the bench beside Ellen. Ellen leaned up into a kiss but he dove into her neck instead, lapping up the beer Oliver had spilled on her shoulder and arm. Ellen burst out into giggles, and Oliver turned away and made gagging noises as if he were thirteen years old.

Ellen pointed the arm which was not currently being nibbled on by Geoffrey at Oliver, waggling a finger in his face. "See, you do think women are gross."

"Afraid of cooties, Oliver?" said Geoffrey, grinning up over Ellen's now very damp elbow. "Don't knock it 'til you try it."

"The same goes for you," said Oliver, in a huff.

"Oh, maybe one day," answered Geoffrey, absently. "When I don't have all this lovely feminine pulchritude around to occupy my time." He kissed his way back up Ellen's arm, shoulder, and neck while he spoke, and finished at her mouth. She pulled up into her lap as he sucked on her lower lip, and she straddled him, squeezed tightly between the table and Geoffrey.

"Wake up and smell the coffee," said Oliver, crossly. "You might not have forever, you know. Your character is bleeding through again -- your native hue of resolution is getting sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. And get a room, would you!"

But Geoffrey laughed into Ellen's mouth, and Ellen slid off his lap, and wrapped her arms around Oliver, while Geoffrey raised his hand for another round. And their troubles were forgotten while they drank and laughed, until they wrapped their arms around one another and wandered out into the night, laughing.