Matt blushed again.
William smiled indulgently, motioned for Matt to pull his shorts back up. That part of the lesson was over.
Matt gladly complied.
“The final candle type,” William said, “is not used in your acapella, ditty-singing churches. They are used by Catholics, Presbyterians, and Methodists. Civilized Christians. They are called ‘Paschal Candles.’ They pick up where pillar candles end, and range in height from eight to eleven inches. Beautiful. Nice for the occasional ceremony. Practically speaking, regular use would burn the house down.”
Chapter 20: R2-D2
Saturday, September 16, 1995
The last time Matt had worn one of these molded plastic masks, he’d been in elementary school. Still an innocent, leaving cookies for Santa, believing the only monsters were those that lurked under his bed.
He knew better now, as did his fellow members of the GM. Hence the masks and other precautions during member interviews. It was why Josh wasn’t joining them tonight. He was on security detail, per the rules, providing them all with iron-clad alibis should this interview go south and Paul rat them out to the dean.
Matt had combed through a bin of masks at the clubhouse. To claim one, he just had to write his name and the date on the inside. Permanent marker recommended. He’d seen the Pirate mask with Evan’s name. Its previous owner’s names dated back to ’86. Jake was the first guy to be the Clown. Matt guessed there would be a clamor for that mask once Jake graduated, especially if the blue high tops went with it.
William’s mask was the oldest, and was crammed with names, dating back to ‘75.
The mask Matt had ultimately chosen was starting to chip along the edges. The first guy who’d worn it was “N. Covington” in ‘81. Now Matt’s name was there.
Matt loved this connection with the gay ghosts of the GM’s past, guys who had also struggled to survive the school’s homophobia. He had picked his mask for its warrior quality, even though the soldier it depicted had fought for the wrong side. The mask was of aStar Warsstormtrooper.
Matt doubted Paul was fooled as to his identity. He also hoped Paul would overlook any negativeStar Warsconnotations.
Paul sat facing his masked interviewers, blinking, bug-eyed behind his thickglasses. He was not making a good impression despite an updated hairstyle and newish clothes from a thrift store. Matt had hoped for better but could hardly claim surprise. Paul was a person whose oddities enveloped him like a forcefield, repelling even the best-intentioned people. His strengths were the opposite: hidden, like the elusive red mushrooms in theSuper Mariogame.
Matt tried focusing on this train wreck of an interview, but was distracted by Todd, who sat to his immediate left.
Todd was masked as a Mouse but was playing the cat. So-called saloon slut in his garter belt, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels, he was a dam in heat. He fretted with the cuffs of his dress shirt, stroked his red necktie seductively, feeding the flame of Matt’s desire.
Matt’s cock wanted to douse Todd’s fire.
Earlier when Evan and Luke had arrived, Evan had asked Todd why he had such an elaborate costume when everyone else just wore masks.
“He’s trying to make sure the new guy doesn’t pick me,” Jake had said. “Jealous because I hold the club record. Chosen three times in a row because of my lucky high tops.”
Evan had disagreed. “Who says this Paul guy will even be admitted? Last time I checked, five of us must vote in favor. No offense, Matt. I know he’s your friend.”
Luke had chimed in, addressing Todd. “You’re fishing in the wrong pond if you want Paul to pick you.” He glanced at Evan, then corrected himself. “Assuming Paul gets admitted, I mean. He seems like a bottom is all I’m saying.”
“Who says I’m fishing in that pond?” Todd had asked.
Had Matt imagined it, or had everyone glanced at him?
Harley, Paul’s sponsor, was moderator, and was the only member not masked. Every group needed a Harley, someone with a middle child’s peacemaker personality, someone singularly focused on ironing out differences, helping the group achieve its goals. Everyone’s friend. Like Idabel.
It was Harley who had met Paul in the hotel lobby, led him to this third-floor suite, and explained the rules ofTruth or Bare.
So, here they were, having finished the first round. Paul had been stubbornly determined to keep his clothes on. Of the eight times he had been offered the choice of “Truth or Bare,” he’d only chosen “bare” when required to do so by the rules: truth, truth, bare, truth, truth, bare, truth, and surprise…truth. What articles of clothing had he removed? His new three dollar shoes that didn’t stink.
When Paul had asked Matt “Truth or Bare,” Matt had chosen “bare” and quickly peeled off his shirt, trying to send a subtle signal to his friend. He should have remembered that Paul did notget subtlety.
Matt frowned behind his mask, willing Paul to lighten up. Not only was Paul giving the impression that he was uncomfortable with nudity, but answering questions wasn’t his strong suit. His voice was flat, emotionless. His answers were curt. He was in his default mode.
The only bright spot in the interview thus far had come when Kevin, in his Devil mask, asked Paul who was his hero.
“Alan Turing,” Paul had said, without hesitation. “He cracked the Nazi codes and helped the Allies win World War II. He built the first real computer, the Automated Computing Engine. Once the English didn’t need his help anymore, they convicted him of ‘homosexual acts.’ He committed suicide two years later.”
