It's WIP time again.

This as-yet untitled story (the lack of a title is very odd, since titles often come to me before plots do) is about friendship, secret love, a road trip, rejection, separation, and reunion. And the discovery of capital-h Happiness, no matter how long that discovery takes.

Mind you, this is a first draft.

The story begins in 1970. Here's a brief introduction to Ned Surwicki, the narrator.

* * *

Louie was, I swear, the hardest-working woman in show business. Not like James Brown was the hardest-working man in show business, although her splits did put his to shame. As I watched her hit the floor again, like a drafting compass with a broken hinge, I could almost feel my testicles parting company and landing like finials on either side of my pelvis. The other men at Oliver Duncan’s bachelor party must’ve felt the same; they all winced in unison, even as they cheered.

"Louie, Louie," the dancer’s none-too-original signature song, grated from the speakers of an oversized cassette player. I amused myself by sipping a martini at the wet bar and watching Oliver’s reactions to the bumping, grinding, and boob jiggling going on just inches from his face. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Flushed to his hairline, he chortled and squirmed. Then he teasingly stuck out his tongue as Louie began undoing his necktie and unbuttoning his shirt.

That’s when I began to squirm. Suddenly, the scene wasn't so amusing anymore. I was watching someone undress and fondle my best friend. I was watching Oliver behave in a sexually suggestive way, which was something I’d never before had to witness. Seeing his interaction with the dancer wasn't the same as accepting the fact he was getting married. The most he'd done in public with Naomi, his betrothed, was put an arm around her or give her a rather sanitized peck now and then. Louie, however, was coaxing out his inner beast. Coaxing out Oliver's inner beast was something only I was allowed to do. In the privacy of my imagination.

I looked around the enormous, handsome hotel suite for some distraction. None was available. I couldn’t even engage in mindless conversation, since every pair of eyes in the room was trained on the stripper.

"Excuse me," I said to the bow-tied bartender. He was a little older than I, maybe in his mid twenties, and none too shabby. But he, too, was distracted. I leaned farther across the bar. "Excuse me."

Yeah, the deaf SOB was straight.