Yarns Without Threads 

"Clu! That's such a great name. I've never met a Clu before." I smiled and began to do my usual schtick about being named after the old TV Western star, Clu Gulager, which was of course a lie. My father simply thought the name had the right sort of clubby/old money/ masculine/ buddy-buddy kind of guy bearing to it. Queers liked it, too. Before I could even get the first sentence out though, Preston was over shaking hands with Chris.

"Clu-oo, hey? Have I said too much? I'm sorry I've got such a big mouth."

"Myla-Chris and I would absolutely love to come for drinks. And yes, he is my . . . lover."

"Grea-a-t! How's Friday night sound?"

"We'll be there."

"Oh terrific. Listen, he is such a hottie; I mean that. After the girls go to bed we'll all get naked in the hot tub."

"Uh . . ."

"You don't mind if I call some of the old gang-they've all been asking about you and your 'friend.' There's Debbie and Jimmy Kinney, and Sandy and Dwayne Langerhorn, and . . ."

"Myla . . ."

"God, who else? I'll think about it. Listen, just show up about six-thirty-we'll have some steaks on the grill. Oh, this is going to be so-o-o fun."

"Maybe you shouldn't invite everyone this time . . ."

"What? In a minute . . . Hon, I gotta go. Rhonda thinks she's got zit on her boobie. Give my love to your mama. See ya'll Friday."

Click. I placed the phone slowly back on the wall mount. "There's no escaping your shit." Amen. Those people-those insane, tired-ass people I feared and wanted so much to be accepted by. What a bizarre reunion. I can just see us all bare-assed in the hot tub talking about cock rings and tit clamps. Who knows-maybe they've changed, too. God knows Myla seems down the road-same randy personality but, I don't know, enlightened somehow? Was it possible?

After dinner of grilled rib-eyes, porterhouse and brisket, baked potatoes, corn on the cob, pinto beans, Caesar salad, ambrosia, garlic bread, pecan and key lime pie-I was ready to die. I'd lost track of the margaritas. My head was saturated, my stomach distended. All I wanted to do was black out and wake up next year sometime.

"Alright everybody, Zane's got the hot tub steaming. Grab your margaritas and follow me." Myla took off down a brick path behind some crepe myrtle bushes. I stood blinking in astonishment. She's not serious. Here we were, a bunch of middle-aged, porcine children- laden with an extra thirty pounds each of groceries, firewater and intestinal poison-and now she expects us to stew in a kettle of scalding, foul water like some revolting Fourth of July clambake. I'm outta here.

"Here's a beach towel, Clu; it's got the Little Mermaid on it-you don't mind, do you?" Zane chuckled as he flung towels at each of us.

"I think he's got one just like it at home," Debbie grinned as she started unbuttoning her blouse and began to strip beside a chaise lounge.

This is definitely not going to happen. I sat the towel down and held my arm up to wave. "Myla, Zane-ya'll, it's been great. Really. I need to get back home and check on Mother. Thank you so much, it was wonderful."

I turned. Myla stepped from behind an enormous hibiscus plant and looked up genuinely shocked. She was topless, clutching her beach towel around her hips. "You can't go home now! This is the best part. We all smoke a joint and get relaxed and open up to each other."

I felt sick. Not on your life, sister. "You know-let's do it another time. I think I had too much to drink."

Instantly there was a tap on my shoulder and I turned around to see a fully naked Sandy taking a last toke on a marijuana cigarette the size of a baby Tootsie Roll. "Hon . . . it's like this . . . it's kinda spiritual. . . me and Dwayne, we've been going to sweat lodges up in Santa Fe for like, years now . . . you know-skiing, shopping-sweat lodges . . . and we've really gotten into this . . . Native American thing of. . . you know, speaking your truth."

What planet was this? I quickly passed the joint to Debbie, who was now standing beside me, naked as a spoon. I did a double take as Jimmy sidled up beside her, scratching his hairy butt. I was now surrounded by large-paunched, unclothed, smiling people who seemed to have stumbled out of some Village of the Damned rehearsal. "Ya'll. . . I don't think I'm up for this. I mean, it sounds real interesting, but. . ."

Jimmy put his hand on my shoulder. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, man. Really. Debbie thinks I shot my mouth off, and I want to apologize. I didn't mean it the way it sounded. You're cool. We're all cool. Stay man." His glassy, beady eyes and saintly sneer were almost convincing. Now we were suddenly cool-we'd progressed from provincial high schoolers to mellow, college druggies. Jimmy held out the joint. A peace offering. Ordinarily I don't smoke pot; I hate pot. It makes me sleepy and hungry-two of my already more disagreeable traits. I could tell Jimmy was intent on portraying sincerity with reckless abandon. Asshole. What could I do? I took the joint and inhaled.

Myla hooted, "Yah-hoo! Get those drawers off, bubble-butt, and meet us down at the hot tub." They all turned and I watched six naked adults in various stages of bodily evolution traipse across the lawn like vignettes from a Lucien Freud painting.

Frustrated, I started to unbutton my shirt. How do I get myself into these things? And why the hell couldn't I just be more of a "flow" kind of guy. Maybe I am an uptight little priss. Maybe I do judge everybody and every situation with the withering censure of a holy seer. Who made me God? (On the other hand-who made them God? Fuck it, we're all omnipotent nowadays.) I slipped out of my underwear, my head spinning. I knew I was drunk, but I also seemed to be vaguely in some sort of control, or so I thought. This wouldn't get out of hand. I'd make sure of that.

I neatly folded my shirt, put my Omega wristwatch inside my pants pocket and slipped off my gold wedding band. ...

"Clu, you better get down there. The girls are starting to think you chickened out on us. Need another margarita?" Zane lumbered past me, dripping wet and heading for the beverage wagon. His massive body glistened under the bug lights like some shiny new truck. His dick, a good eight inches of prime, floppy manhood, swung from side to side like a broad sailor's rope, hanging from the bow, swaying in the breeze. Never that much of a size queen (I mean, after the initial visual, what does one really do with all that real estate?) still, I'm never not impressed by the supreme confidence abundantly endowed men so effortlessly pull off. What have they got to be shy about? Zane could stroll bare-ass through Buckingham Palace and give it about as much regard as trimming his toenails.

I cinched up my mermaid sarong and approached Mr. Ford Explorer. "So, what exactly happens when ya'll 'tell truths' in the hot tub? Is this going to turn into some kind of orgy?" I thought I was sounding light and waggish.

Zane turned to me with a look of shock. "You think I'm gonna screw Debbie or Sandy with my wife looking on? You nuts? She'd have my balls in a jar of formaldehyde 'fore I could even get Mr. Happy partial to the idea. Hell, we just talk about the meaning of life . . . who the Cowboys are drafting this year . . . shit like that."

Uh-huh. Shit like that. "Zane, don't you worry 'bout your girls?"

"Worry-what?"

"Well, seeing all these naked adults running around?"

Zane smiled and handed me a fresh margarita. (This one in a plastic disposable with confetti and the word "Fiesta!" stamped on it.) "Let me tell you something-my girls have healthy attitudes about the human body. Myla and I have never hid nothing. God knows, we didn't want 'em raised like we were-uptight and ashamed. They've seen us in all our glory since they were babies. They're not impressed."

Compelling argument. It's a theory I could empathize with, I just wasn't too sure about the application. In any event, if they thought every man was as hung as Daddy, they were in for a few surprises.

We turned and shuffled off toward the "lobster pot," each conveying an extra margarita should anyone be suddenly prostrate from thirst. Rounding the little privacy fence of banana trees and oleanders, we entered the "Sodom and Gomorra" pavilion. I guess in my drunken oblivion I was just a tad disappointed there weren't multiple mountings going on. In fact, except for the lack of clothing, it could've been the local canasta club holding a Saturday night smoker.

"There he is! We thought you'd run off and joined the Church of Christ." Myla giggled as she waved a fly off her boob.

"Come on in, Clu, it feels wonderful." Sandy sighed, floating between Dwyane's long legs in a blanket of aerated effervescence. Her breasts rose above the water like two snow cones splashed with a dollop of maple syrup. It was definitely the largest hot tub I'd ever seen. Somewhere between a cistern and a lap pool.

"Lord, ya'll-couldn't you have at least found a bigger kiddie pool so we wouldn't be so crowded?"

Myla giggled again. "Isn't it hysterical. Zane had it 'specially built so he wouldn't feel restricted."

"Just being practical. 'Tween the pool and this thing, we got enough water to survive a six-month drought." Zane slowly edged over the side and sank into the steamy vapors. ...