“FLETCHER!”
I jumped. My editor, Mr. Roger Harris, was a hormonal lithium-popper with seven ex-wives and a comb-over. I turned and gave him my patented (not really) wide-eyed “Are you trying to kill me” look and waited for a follow-up to the screaming of my name.
“You’re queer, right?”
I frowned, “Some have called me rather odd from time to time, but that’s-“
“I meant you sleep with guys, right?”
“Well, that’s a very broad generalization,” I sighed, “I am not currently sleeping with anyone at the moment because well, A, I’m here, and B, I believe that promiscuity is the most prevalent downfall of our current standard of life and I tend to become pretty offended when –“
“God damn it man, are you a homosexual?”
I sighed. I had never officially come out to anyone, they had all just kind of presumed and it often got very frustrating.
“I do fit in that category, if you must know, but I don’t see how my sexual orientation is of any business to you.”
He rolled his eyes, “Why do you have to use so many words to say yes?” I shrugged. “Mitch Schmidt, the second-string Cowboys quarterback just came out. It’s all over ESPN. You need to set up an interview with him.”
“Why me?” I hated my editor…
His face turned red and stream practically flew out of his nostrils, “You gays all know each other, right?”
That was the most absurd thing I had ever heard.
“Yeah, we have these things where all of us meet every Saturday and go out for coffee.”
“Really?’
“No!”
He was getting frustrated even more and very annoyed with me on top of that. “Well, he would probably be more open to talking to another fag rather than someone else. Get a hold of his agent and try to set up an interview. Her name is Janine Coldwell. Here’s the phone number and her e-mail address.”
I glared at the small memo note he’d placed on my desk. “You do realize every magazine and talk show in the world is going to want to get a hold of this guy, right?” I snorted, “So not only will we have to compete with Sports Illustrated and O, but we’re going to have to compete with Out and the Advocate on top of that.”
“What?”
I rolled my eyes, “Out? The Advocate? They’re gay magazines and if this guy is coming out, he’s going to get in contact with them before us.”
“So send him a picture of yourself naked. I don’t care, just get the interview!”
He stomped away and I sat in my cubicle, more offended than I had ever felt before. I frowned and started to figure out how I would network this one. I picked up the number and frowned, then dialed the number.
The snotty secretary answered the phone. I had her forward me to the voicemail and sighed as it beeped, “Hello, Ms. Coldwell. My name is Tad Fletcher and I write for Atheltica Magazine. I was hoping I could talk to you about setting up an interview with Mitch Schmidt for an article we’d like to run next month if possible. I understand he’s quite the hot commodity at the moment, but if you could possibly fit in a meeting for just an hour or two whenever convenient in the next two to three weeks, it would be greatly appreciated. My number is 555-2927 and I would greatly appreciate a reply whenever it’s convenient for you. Have great day. Bye.”
XxXxX
“They send in the fag to interview a fag, huh?”
I internally gaped at the man that said this horrendously offensive statement to me. The entire coffee shop had been cleared out and there he sat, Mitch Schmidt, the Man of the Hour, sipping some atrociously expensive coffee product, looking smug and conceited. Janine Coldwell had asked me when a time was good for me and gave me the interview right away. Who knew a polite message left on a voicemail could put you in front of all the assholes demanding an interview as soon as he was available?
I raised one slightly plucked eyebrow and sat across from him, a drink ready for me. “They thought you would be more comfortable with ‘one of your own’,” I answered. “And I have a name.”
“Sure you do,” He scoffed, “Well, that’s just lovely. How thoughtful of them. Did they hire you on especially for me?”
“I’ve worked with ‘them’ for 3 years, thank you. Could we start the interview now, please?” Usually by this time, people would comment on my slight Boston accent down here in Texas, but he very carefully kept the conversation focused on him self. I was perfectly fine with this, of course. I have never been one to enjoy a lot of attention to things I was self-conscious about and the purpose of this gathering was for me to write an article about him. So I just let him keep talking.
“I thought we already had,” he chuckled and I pulled my tape recorder. He glared down at it as I set it on the table. “I didn’t agree to be recorded.”
“But your agent did,” I smiled, “Would you like to see the signed agreement? I have a copy with me.”
He did not like me.
“You’ve been playing for the Cowboys for five years and are set to move up to first-string in two years when the current position holder retires unless you choose to move to a different team. What motivated the sudden announcement?”
“I like to stir things up,” He said with a grin. I rolled my eyes and he shrugged, “I’ve been trying my whole life to be what my dad wanted me to be and I got sick of it. I was a fucking amazing football player before I came out and I’m still a fucking amazing football player. I just don’t have sex with women to cover up anymore.”
“And how did your super-model girlfriend take the news?”
“Off the record, she found comfort in the arms of her own super-model girlfriend. But don’t print that, please. Just say she and I parted ways a while ago and I never announced it or some shit like that.”
Again, I rolled my eyes, “Do you feel this will affect any of your endorsements?”
“Only the pathetic ones. Most of my endorsements are made to appeal to all males, not just the straight or the gay ones. I feel that because I am a gay man that does not fit into the stereotype of a lisping interior designer, I make it easier for straight men to tolerate the gay community. I’m a real man’s man, you know? I play football, drink Budweiser, and leave the toilet seat up. I don’t arrange flowers. I don’t wear make up. I grill hamburgers. I am fighting a stereotype and I’m showing straight people that… that not everything is black and white.”
“Nice,” I muttered. He inarguably just made all of that bullshit up. “What made you decide to go with such a bold, public coming out instead of quieter, more subtle course of action?”
“If you’re gonna go, go all out, right?” He laughed, “I’ve never been the quiet, subtle type. I was the loud, in your face kid that did stupid, possibly self-destructive stuff for attention. Looks like I’m still doing that, doesn’t it? I’d already told the people that mattered. The rest of the world was just the second wave, I guess you could say. And when has quiet and subtle ever been any fun, huh?”
“A lot of your products are female-aimed and tend to project you as a sex symbol. How do you feel that this will affect your female fan base?”
“Whether women see me as a sex object or a football player is their choice. How many of them actually thought they’d ever get me in real life?” He snorted, “Fantasies are fantasies and if they want to imagine a straight me loving them, they can do that, or imagine me with a man if that’s what floats your boat. I’m just going to keep doing what I do best, play football. I am eternally pleased when I find a woman that just likes watching me play football and has no desire to get in my pants.”
“So a lot of your female fans just want your cock?”
He smirked, “Male ones, too, but they’re too proud to admit it if they ever are.”
“Does it match the size of your ego is in that just you being arrogant?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“No, actually,” I laughed, “I prefer partners with brains.”
I think he was a little shocked by that. Obviously this asshole is used to getting whatever he wants whenever he wants it and having everyone around him drool and watch. I never was the type to get star-struck.
The interview dragged on, me asking him tiresome questions about his football career and him giving his arrogant, poor humored replies. The man was gorgeous, that was undeniable, with his perfect white teeth, his bold self-confidence, and his sculpted body under worn jeans and a plain white t-shirt. But I’ve never been the superficial type and his sour personality just made me view him as a fat, bald, disgustingly hairy drunk that hadn’t showered in a few months.
“Well, I think I’ve got everything I needed, Mr. Schmidt.” I said after about an hour of questions. He nodded.
“So we’re all done?”
I stood up, putting my tape recorder in my briefcase. He stood as well and extended his hand. I shook it.
“It has been good talking to you… what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” And I left.