Guy-Spell

Chapter 1

“Welcome back to Guy-Spell. Guy Montelli here with best-selling, gay romance writer, Finnegan Wakeland.”

Guy stared into camera one, grinning like a Hollywood star with a slew of Emmy awards on his mantle at home. He looked exactly like Tab Hunter, one hundred percent, all the way: blond and beautiful, reeking of handsomeness. A daytime television superstar on the Pittsburgh-based, queer network, The Man Channel.

Guy held up Wakeland’s new novel in front of his slim but muscular chest: two half-dressed firemen were kissing on its cover, silky yellow flames surrounding their embrace.

“Finnegan Wakeland’s new novel is called Men Under Fire.” Guy turned his view from camera one to his afternoon guest. “Tell us what your trashy and fun book is about. Don’t shy away from any risky or tantalizing details, of course.” Guy winked into the camera, playing with his live and television-viewing audiences, always grinning and obviously enjoying his job.

Finnegan Wakeland hated to do interviews and only agreed to be on Guy-Spell because it was part of his contract with Haymann Books. He looked down at his lap more than he did at Guy, and the three cameras focused on the stage. He didn’t smile. Frankly, the thirty-eight-year-old Irishman resembled an ogre on my monitor, bulky, fatty, unmemorable, and charmless.

He grumbled to Guy, “Two firemen meet at Station Eleven in downtown San Francisco. Neither know the other is gay. Both become tied up in a slew of lies, secrets, and lust. One loses his job.” Then Wakeland fell flat on his face during the interview and mumbled, “It’s fluff on the beach stuff. Third-grade reading. Any retard can read the thing.”

Guy experienced many bad interviews during his four years on The Man Channel. He flashed his toothy grin, gasped, and played off Wakeland’s upsetting and rude comment with, “Stop, Finny. Just stop! The book is steamy-hot and delicious. Let me read page 182 for our watchers. It’s pop-up stuff!”

Assistant director, Neil Carmen, had objected to Guy reading anything from Wakeland’s book because they would probably have to bleep out Wakeland’s mouthy and vulgar characters and XXX narration. But Neil realized the interview was a giant flop, and he let Guy do what he wanted, having worked with him for the last three years on the show. If anyone could make lemonade out of lemons, Guy was the man to get the job done, especially since Wakeland had been inappropriate and politically incorrect during the live show.

Guy opened the book and started reading, toying with every word, over-acting, “…Kenneth’s wet, hulking chest dripped with water, falling over every finely sculpted abs and…”

“Bleep him,” Neil said into his headset to his audio man, Chett Kelper. “It’s getting nasty on stage.”

Guy kept reading.

I reviewed the small monitor in front of me and heard exactly what the audience and viewers would hear in six seconds.

“Bleep…hard…bleep…goosepimples along his throbbing muscles and bleep hanging between his…bleep.”

Then I listened to a long string of bleeps, watching Guy’s mouth move as he said the words f**k, c**k, c*m, and d**k. I waved a hand to Lucy Bender, the show’s assistant producer, to inform her the bit was turning into a bleeping disaster.

Lucy, the only one with access to Guy and his earpiece, spoke into her headset to him, probably telling him to stop reading the novel and to ask Wakeland more personal questions.

Guy pressed his left ear, stopped reading, and held the front of the book up to camera one again. He giggled, “My producer, Lucy B, says she’s a little turned on by Finny’s words and not to spoil the scene for all you watchers and readers. Thanks, Lucy!”

Guy continued to save the interview, asking his questions about Wakeland’s bedroom behavior, a typical interrogation Guy had a reputation of always asking his guests, prying into their private lives.

Lucy gave me a thumb’s up, mouthed, “Thanks, Landon,” and smiled, telling me it was a good call to get involved when I did, proving I was a helpful second assistant director.

Following Guy’s intimate questions for the author, he stood and camera two picked him up as he walked right, to the middle of the stage with the novel. He held the novel in front of him, just below his perfectly clean-shaven and foundation-shaded chin, continued to beam his pearly whites, and flamboyantly yelled at his audience.

“Guess what, peeps in the audience? You all get a hardback copy of Men Under Fire today to take home!”

“Camera three,” Neil called into his headset. “You’re on.”

Operator of camera three, Billy Tarkin, an ex-pro football player, focused on the royal blue curtains left of Guy’s elevated stage. A bare-chested hottie, dressed in tight, white boxer-briefs and untied Timberland boots, pushed a giant, flat-bed cart out of the curtains. Timberland looked Italian, with massive muscles, huge d**k in the skimpy underwear, and scruff on his beautiful chin and cheeks. His smile glowed a perfect white as he parked the cart in the middle of the lower stage, grabbed a stack of ten novels in his beefy arms, and stepped into the audience, passing out the prizes.

Guy snapped a few times and called out, “Look at our delicious piece of Italian beefcake, Victor! Something tells me he spends more time in the gym than reading, but who cares since he’s hawwwt!”

Camera two did a close-up of Guy. Guy closed out the show as his sidekick, Victor, continued to pass out Finnegan Wakeland’s trashy novel to audience members.

Guy waved an arm at his viewers, snapped once, and said, “I want to thank The Brigade Boys for singing today, and my two other lovely guests, Ronny the Hot Weatherman from Logo, and Finnegan Wakeland. Until tomorrow, my fans and lovers…have a Guy-Spell of your own. Bye!”

The credits rolled at the bottom of my monitor. Camera three followed Victor as he passed out books. Guy entered the scene, assisting Victor in his chore. Finnegan Wakeland walked off the stage and headed for his dressing room. The show ended, going to a KY commercial.

Everyone took off their headsets, and Neil Carmen yelled at Lucy, “We’re never having that writer on our show again! So f*****g boring! So ignorant to our autistic and special needs viewers! He’s going to make the ratings go down!”

Lucy attempted to calm her boss down.

Other workers on-set continued doing their jobs.

Guy walked off stage, around my monitor on its tripod, and leaned into me. He kissed my cheek and asked, “How’d it go, babe?”

The kiss felt warm and soothing, better than the show turned out.

“It’s good, but not our best work. Finny doesn’t work well on camera. He can write a great book, but his interviewing skills suck shit.”

Guy chuckled, breathed me in, kissed me again, and said, “I did what I could do as a host to give it some life.”

“You did,” I told him. “No worries. Your fans will love the installment, as usual.”

* * * *

Guy and I met on-set, three years before when I first started at Guy-Spell. Although he had a reputation of being a complete d**k, and was known to be excruciatingly hard to work with, and for, he had taken a liking to me. Truth told, he cupped me under his wing like a baby bird, treated me as his little pet, and soon started to date me. After three months of dating, I decided to sleep with him and became his boyfriend.

Life was good with Guy, I told myself every day. The man, although characteristically feminine and somewhat of a flamer in front of the camera, was all-man off the air: a stud, aggressive, charming when he needed to be, and a sweetheart. Never had he acted like a queen or was bullheaded with me outside of Guy-Spell. While making the show, he was a villain most of the time during our workdays, but never to me when we were off the clock. Only to others. Guy was known to be a conceited asshole on-set, unbearable and rough around the edges, for all the wrong reasons, but again, never to me outside the show.

Someone at the show—I think it was Chett Kelper, but wasn’t positive—referred to him as a terrorist at work and lover at home. Honestly, I didn’t disagree with that comment and wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Guy was an angel with me. A complete teddy bear who treated me like a prince, almost always. Day in and day out. He called me his gift from heaven, a saint who had saved his life from being alone. The only man he had fallen in love with. His better half. His soul mate. Someone who had changed his world and made him believe love could exist between two men, and sharing happiness together during a lifetime was possible, a reality.

Guy never barked at me like others. He never threatened me or spouted rude comments at me like he did to others. And never, never, never did he swear at me, even when I f****d up at work or at home. Guy had placed me on a pedestal in his world and labeled me untouchable to others, only his to love, a certain prize or diamond he had unearthed from the world of rubble and would forever hold dear to his heart. I became the man he loved and protected. His partner. Fixation. And someone he could cherish, lust for, and adore every single day of his life, without any guilt whatsoever.

Bottom line: Guyan “Guy” Montelli loved me. Only me.

* * * *

We had a small flat in downtown Pittsburgh on Rice Street. That specific area of the city went by the name of Southton. Our flat wasn’t anything extravagant or expensive. The place looked charming and felt comfortable, somewhat low scale for two guys who were making plenty to survive on. Our bedroom had a view of the Monongahela River and part of the Birmingham Bridge. Tiny, specialized shops decorated our neighborhood streets: coffee, chocolate, expensive stationary and greeting cards, floral, deli, hardware, bakery, and many others.

Southton had the reputation of being the queer part of the city, and rainbow flags waved in all directions. Some called our small area arrogant, uppity, and unbearable because of its ubiquitous charm. Frankly, no one from Southton really cared what those “outside” people thought, thinking them low-brow and ignorant to different lifestyles and people.

Guy called Southton the gay utopia and perfect for our extroverted lifestyles in television. Of course, he was a celebrity throughout the entire city of Pittsburgh because of his television show, but in Southton, he was sort of a god, an upstanding citizen with a great smile, strong head on his shoulders, and leader of our community. Honestly, we couldn’t go anywhere without someone recognizing his Tab Hunter good looks, wanting his autograph and taking selfies with the man. Both men and women hugged him when we walked to Metropolitan Coffee for a brew. People in Southton wanted to hang with Guy and be a part of his world. They adored him for being fun, partially obnoxious, all smiles, and slapstick when necessary.

Take away Guy’s celebrityhood, that layer of extra skin that his viewers watched Monday through Friday from eleven in the morning until noon, and what did I have for the taking? An intelligent, well-rounded man with a doctorate in media communications from Pitt University, the third son of Fredrico and Helena Montelli, the spitting, Icelandic image of his mother, lacking his father’s Italian looks, and someone who enjoyed playing video games, collecting Madonna memorabilia off the Internet, and was a huge fan of Survivor and other reality shows.

A man who hated to do dishes, insisted we have a maid (twenty-two-year-old Bertley from Maids of Heaven; he came three times a week), and refused to make our bed. I was left with a man who had a weakness for Long Island iced teas, music by Cher and Lady Gaga, and enjoyed singing love songs in the shower, usually those from famous movies.

Guy was someone who used too much product in his hair, loved makeup, and name brands. He hated expensive cars, calling them a waste of money, and drove a Prius around the city. He loved Terry MacMillan novels, adoring the African-American’s narrative style, and other literary vinaigrettes of life. In his spare time, he watched reruns of Jeopardy! and became a huge fan of American Horror Story. Plus, he collected Pez dispensers, the proud owner of over a thousand pieces, most of which were rare and limited.