I've been thinking about that clip where Eric hanky flagged as a fistee... and I think that Assad should think about that clip. And maybe even ask Eric about it.
Heehee
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Assad considered himself to be both exceptionally good at improvisation and exceptionally good at getting people into bed, but he was having trouble finding an organic way to bring the conversation around to what he had in mind.
In fact, he'd been thinking so hard about finding an opening that he'd entirely lost the plot of Eric's Velvet Underground sex party anecdote. He screwed up his face, trying to tune back in.
"So then, the guy with the taxidermied squirrel came barreling out of the bathroom, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shouted, 'You have to help me find Bucky!' Of course, I had no idea the squirrel was named Bucky, so—"
Assad nodded, hoping that Eric wouldn't expect him to be able to discuss how the man with the taxidermied squirrel fit into the timeline of Eric's second time doing coke with Andy Warhol.
The story had begun at the pizza shop four blocks away from the hotel, and now, back amongst their disheveled luggage and the bland hotel artwork, Eric was showing no signs of slowing down.
Assad took a deep breath and dove in, hoping he wouldn't land smack dab in the middle of a sentence.
"Did you flag when you were hanging out with that crowd? I mean, was that a thing with them?"
Eric frowned at him.
"No, I don't think so. I mean, things got a little wild once we were all doped up, but I wasn't going into those parties looking for anything in particular. And if I had been, it would have been a crazy art chick with some bright ideas about tantric sex."
"Mmm," Assad hummed.
"I didn't hook up with the squirrel guy, if that's what you're asking."
Assad shook his head.
"No," he said, "it's just… Well, I saw a clip of you the other day. One I hadn't seen before, of you on stage. And you had, you know, a bandana in your pocket."
Eric grinned.
"Yeah?" he said. "And what, you looked up what it meant?"
Assad huffed.
"I didn't have to look it up, Eric," he said. "I've done my share of cruising, you know. I'm not that young."
Eric's eyebrows shot up.
"You?" he said. "Cruising?"
Then his face cleared and he laughed
"You know the apps don't count, right?"
Assad rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, I know the apps don't count."
"Backstage doesn't either. There's no risk involved."
"I'm not talking about backstage."
For a moment, Eric just looked at him. Then he said, "Huh. Well, anyway, I wasn't really flagging onstage. But if you knew what it meant, you must have figured that out."
Assad frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Eric laughed.
"Well, it's a joke, obviously. About how I was always getting fisted. By, uh, you know, life."
Assad suddenly felt very stupid.
"Oh," he said.
"What, did you think I was actually trying to get fisted by random members of the audience?"
Assad's cheeks felt warm.
"No," he spluttered. "Of course not. That would be ridiculous."
Mercifully, Eric's phone pinged before the conversation could go any further. While Eric read his messages, Assad turned and sidled over to the bedstand, where he'd left a plastic CVS bag that afternoon, before they'd left for dinner.
He fiddled with the handle a little, waiting until he thought Eric was thoroughly distracted to pick it up. If he carried it in his left hand, and walked very calmly over to his suitcase, keeping it out of Eric's line of sight…
"Are those nitrile gloves?"
