32. Marsh

THIRTY-TWO

Marsh

Despite living in New York, I rarely get all my steps in. Perhaps it's a blessing and a curse that my favorite Duane Reade, taqueria, and comedy club are all mere blocks from our apartment. The only time I ever get close to the magical 10,000 steps is on performance nights because I can't stop pacing.

"Seriously, stop!" Preeti grabs my sleeve to physically hold me in place. I've been pacing backstage at Pauline's for the past twenty minutes, running through each word—nay, each syllable—in my act to iron out every last kink. My nervous system is so nervous you'd think it was a Jewish mother.

"I'm fine," I tell her.

"Watching you is giving me motion sickness." When Preeti's nervous, she goes into super Type-A mode. She's been coordinating with every comic on the docket, as well as the stage crew, the lighting designer, and the ticket sellers to ensure everyone knows their role for tonight. "This is just like any other night, any other performance."

"To quote my Passover Haggadah, why the fuck is this night different from any other night? Oh right, because it's my first show in almost a year and my first time back on stage after bombing so hard Christopher Fucking Nolan wants to make a movie about it." I nod as I do another lap, begging my heart rate to come down .

Preeti tugs on my sleeve again, pulling me into place. "It's not good form to sweat before you get on stage."

"Good call." As soon as I cease pacing, a burn takes over my legs. I should've stretched.

Preeti sizes me up. I'm wearing a T-shirt with Catherine O'Hara's face from Home Alone 2: Lost in New York when she screams "Kevin!" Everyone knows the second movie in the series is the gay one because that's where Catherine O'Hara slaps Tim Curry across the face. Preeti pulls down one of my folded up sleeves. I smooth out a wrinkle in her red and black dress that's going for Christmas vixen, plunging neckline included.

"We're actually fucking doing this," she says, her voice a little above a whisper.

"I can't believe we pulled it off. Thanks for keeping my ass in line."

"It was a hard job. Y'know, because your ass is so fucking huge."

"Stop flirting with me." I give her a wink.

Relief washes over me when Data and Bryce join us backstage. Leave it to Data to wear a blazer and slacks to a queer comedy event. He said he wanted to dress up for my big show, and his corduroy blazer is giving sexy professor vibes—all that's missing is a desk to bend me over.

"Nobody tell two pair, but it's a full house out there!" Data laughs giddily at his own … joke? Was that a joke?

"Two pair?" Bryce turns to him, utterly confused as the rest of us.

"Because in poker, a full house beats two pair. So if you were two pair, you'd be scared of a full house because you're going to get beat." To complete the subpar dad joke, Data gives it two thumbs up.

I turn to Preeti, who I can tell is straining not to respond with a sarcastic remark. Forgive Data , my eyes tell her, he knows not what he's done .

Data looks to Bryce for a laugh. "That was clever, right?"

"Well, at least you're cute." Bryce pats him on the shoulder.

I let out a loud chortle to support my husband. My husband. A smile overtakes my face, not from Data's awful joke, but from the knowledge we're married. After the meeting with Dad, we decided to get married the next week at city hall. With close family and friends waiting, we celebrated with a fancy dinner at a small Italian bistro after. It was complete perfection.

"Good one!" I shout for his horrible joke. Hey, if women can fake it, so can men.

"It actually is a full house out there. I think nearly every seat is full," Data says.

"Who's with my dad right now?" I ask, a sudden panic shooting up my spine.

"Anthony. He's giving Dad tips on crypto investing. Dad's a little confused, but I think it's understandable in this context." Data shrugs.

First off, how cute is it that Data calls him Dad now? If I wasn't about to shit my brains out with nerves, I'd swoon. Secondly, to add another layer of tension to tonight, this is the first show of mine that Dad's attending. He actually came. He wrote it down so he'd remember. Now that Data is stepping in to lead the company, that's helped Dad come around to my career. I'll take the wins where I can.

"But that's not why we're back here," Bryce says excitedly. "I got a producer from Saturday Night Live to come. He's in the audience."

Preeti and I turn to each other with the same expression of sheer shock, sheer joy, and sheer terror. If our eyes were bulging any more, we'd be Looney Tunes.

"Bryce, please tell me this isn't a joke because I can't handle another crappy joke," Preeti says, her chest heaving with big breaths. "No offense, Data."

Data's about to object, but knows this isn't the time.

"Lady, I wouldn't joke about this. See for yourself." Bryce leads us to the curtain. He pulls it aside and points to a man in the back row checking his phone. He has the no-nonsense attitude of someone with power.

"Shit. Bryce isn't joking," I say.

"There is a fucking producer from SNL here. Fuck." Preeti steps back from the curtain. "How the fuck did you pull that off, Bryce?"

"Pre-Anthony, I sucked a lot of dick in this town," he says matter-of-factly.

"So did I, but all that got me was a coupon for a free cone at Yogurt City," Preeti says.

"Good one," I say back, still stunned.

"You're going to do great!" Data gives us both another thumbs up. It's like he's purposefully trying to be corny at this point. Now I know how he feels when I make plowing jokes. "Just think of it as any other show."

"Too late," I say.

"You're the funniest people I know."

"Can you tell the SNL guy?" Preeti laughs nervously, but there's a fire burning in her eyes. She's never one to step back from a challenge. Opportunity is knocking, and this bitch is ready to answer. "Marsh, we could … "

I nod back, already imagining us sharing an office at 30 Rock. "This is now officially the biggest night of our career. I'm sweating like crazy. I don't even know if my material is any good."

"Look on the brightside," Data says. "At least you're not straight."

His smile infuses me with confidence .

"You." I cup his bushy cheeks in my hands as I give him a kiss and a million comedy points. "I think I'll keep you."

Preeti swamps Bryce in a monster hug. "I owe you. I'll let you put your hand under my dress at the afterparty."

"Ew," says Bryce. "I'm going back to my seat. Whatever the comedy version of break a leg is, do that." He blows us kisses and flits off.

"Preeti, I'm going to borrow my husband for a pep talk." Data takes my hand and leads us down the narrow hall. "Where's your dressing room?"

"Ha! Good one." Pauline's isn't fancy enough to have a dressing room, a green room, or a coat room.

We weave through the nervous comedians until Data finds the bathroom. "This'll do."

Like most bathrooms in dingy New York clubs, this one is a tight squeeze. The sink and toilet are so close together one can wash their hands while still on the can. Every inch of the wall is covered with signatures and messages of past performers scribbled in different colors and sizes, some of whom went on to big things, some of whom didn't. The mirror above the sink is grayed at the edges.

"Thanks for being here," I say.

"Of course." Data locks the door behind us. "I wouldn't miss this for the world."

I grab his arms and pull him into a kiss, breathing in his scent. "I couldn't do this without you. Any of this. I love you so much."

"All I did was laugh at your jokes." He smiles against my lips, and I can still hear his unique cackle in the darkness from that very first show.

"It's going to be a great show. Being nervous is a good thing. It's adrenaline," I tell myself. I try to pace in the bathroom, but the square footage won't allow it.

"Let me help calm you down, just a tad." Data grabs two flimsy paper towels, places them on the floor like a tartan picnic blanket in Central Park, and gets on his knees. I quickly realize his mouth will soon be too full to give a pep talk. He unbuckles my pants, my dick instantly sprouting wood.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping you chill for the show." Data pulls my boxers down, unleashing my throbbing cock. The excitement, the nerves, Data, the enclosed space (why is being crammed into tight spaces with him so fucking hot?) it all combines to make me rock hard.

"Hey, you," he says to my dick.

"You really like talking to it, don't you?"

"Hush." He licks up the underside of my shaft, setting my body ablaze. "Don't be nervous."

"Trust me, babe. That's one part of me that never gets performance anxiety."

His tongue circles my pulsing tip. If Data is feeling scrunched on the floor of a too-small bathroom, he's not showing it. He looks up at me, smiling with warmth and a bit of impishness. Watching his beautiful lips stretch around my dick actually soothes my nerves.

"What is it about us and bathrooms?" I ask.

"Easy access to clean up?" He fondles my balls, his mouth following soon after as he strokes my cock. I bury my face in my arm to stifle the moans escaping. The chatter of the audience and the buzz of backstage carries through the paper-thin walls.

"My Data … fuck, don't stop."

His mouth travels up to the head and takes me down, down, down, his hot saliva sending shivers against my pulsing dick. There is nothing more beautiful than seeing the man you love with his lips wrapped around your cock. His thirsty mouth laps up my precum. My legs shake, barely able to stay up against the power of Data .

"Mmmm. You taste good," he says. The sound of his knee ripping one of the paper towels doesn't even register with him.

"What do I taste like?"

"Dick." He smacks it on his tongue, then his eyes catch on his watch. "Shit, we have to hurry this up. You're on soon."

Data gets to work, bobbing up and down on my dick, making me practically levitate from his tongue power. Saliva shines around his beard, glistens in his fist as it pumps my cock.

"I'm doing you when you're done," I say through staggered breaths.

"Not enough time." He tongues my balls, getting his mouth over every sensitive part of me.

"In the basement of the cabin … I … Mallomars … you jerked me off, but I didn't get to … reciprocate … something something Jewish guilt." My brain is turning to mush in real time as he methodically goes up and down my dick, heat rushing through my core.

"I'll make you a deal. After the show, you can fuck the living daylights out of me."

"Deal." I grab a fistful of his hair and push him down to the base as I come down his throat. Not the most romantic way to end this, but Data wouldn't want me risking a cum stain on my pants. Saturday Night Live is in the audience, after all.

He falls back against the wall, hitting his head on the toilet paper dispenser. His lips glisten with the fading remnants of the blow job. Our eyes find each other. Love, support, and the feeling of forever transmits between us.

"My Data, indeed."

"My Marsh. Knock ‘em dead."

I tuck my dick back in my pants and pull him to standing. As I envelop him in a bear hug, the loud thud of my elbow hitting the empty paper towel dispenser echoes through the room. I can taste myself on his sweet lips as we kiss—my Data.

How did I ever let him go? I spent years struggling to get my big break, but the whole time, it was him. The best thing that ever happened to me was getting this man to love me, somehow, someway. There's not a role or opportunity that can compare to being his husband. I ain't fucking this up again.

Data opens the door, the light of the outside world shining upon us. We stumble out into the hallway. He gives me one last smile, one last squeeze of the hand, before walking back to his seat.

I watch him go, still swoony over him after eight years. It's only someone clearing their throat behind me that snaps me out of it.

Preeti stares at me, arms crossed. She eyes the bathroom door, then me, one question visible in her playful glare.

"He was helping me fix my collar."

She rolls her eyes. "And you complain that lesbian sex has too much slurping?"

"Ooh. Really good callback." Game recognizes game.

She gestures to the stage, her glare transforms to a warm smile. "You're on, Goldberg."

"It's Kaplan-Goldberg."

I take a deep breath, finding my center, before I push through the black curtain to face a wall of terrifying darkness. Through the lights, I can make out my dad, my friends, and especially my Data. And suddenly, a sense of calm and confidence comes over me. Because no matter what happens in the next ten minutes, I'm going home with the hottest guy here.

"Here's the thing you need to know about my husband, Data … "

The End