Guess Who's Coming To Dinner

Picture it. August 22, Miami Beach.

Ricky Martin rushes to the penthouse suite where he agreed to meet Anderson Cooper for a fancy dinner and a nice long talk. To make up for being late, Ricky paid for a bottle of Dom Pérignon to be brought up. After a meal of filet mignon, lobster tail, asparagus tips, jasmine rice, and crème brûlée, they relax and chat.

"This is my last time for a vacation before the Democratic convention next week," sighs Anderson, kicking back in a recliner. "These South Beach Latinos are wearing me out."

"What clubs have you been meeting these boys at?" asks an incredulous Ricky as he poured another glass of champagne.

"Are you crazy? An assistant scouts them out, makes them sign confidentiality agreements, and whisks them through the freight elevator. I can’t critique Obama’s speech and be in a picture on Perez Hilton with white drops coming out of my mouth."

"I hate him! He’s a pretend Latin. And he’s always giving people like you and me shit."

"It’s not just him. It’s all these damn journalists and activists saying we’re cowards for not coming out. Well, their careers may have been made on being gay but it could derail ours. Look at big-mouth Rosie. Even she waited until her talk show was off the air before she became the raging lesbian. She’s no fool."

"I’m sooooo glad she got rid of that blog. Ugh!"

"And the Advocate pissed me off for putting me and Jodie Foster on their cover." Anderson interrupts his huff to order another Dom Pérignon. "I hate the games the gay mafia plays. I mean Jodie did it right. She never talks about her personal life. She’s not scared, she’s private just like me. Otherwise, they force you to be a spokesperson."

"I hate that whole, ‘Well if gay teens see prominent and successful out celebrities embracing their sexuality, they will have role models to encourage them to be who they really are and it will make homosexuality more accepted.’ Role model, schmole model. It’s not our responsibility to change attitudes. We’re entertainers."

"Um, you are. I’m a serious journalist."

"Ok, Mr. ‘Look at My Muscle Shirts During On-Location Assignments.’" And your memoir that avoided mention of any romances? Who do you think you’re fooling?"

"You should talk! Remember that picture of you and that other guy in bikini briefs doing push-ups on the beach? And when’s the last time someone saw you with a woman? By the way, getting that girl years ago to say you were a 10 in the sack? Puh-lease!"

"Hey, beards do no harm and keep up the fantasy. At least I’m not Usher and marry one."

"Stop being a bitter queen! It was one weekend and he never promised you anything."

"Whatever. But seriously, man, I have to shake my bon-bon for the ladies. I can’t be queer. Most of them will stop coming to the concerts. Even Luther Vandross kept the ‘she’s in his song right up to the end, God rest his soul. I just imagine the panties that girls throw on stage are 2Xist boxer briefs and I’m fine."

"I’ve done so many stories about victims of different types of discrimination in all parts of the world. My work speaks for itself, so why do I have to? I deserve some props!"

"Right! Remember when I applauded Christian Chavez of the Mexican band RBD for coming out last year? No one gave me a fist bump on that, either, even though that took guts. I spread a message of tolerance for God’s sake! I do my part."

"You know, I have to admit I’m jealous of people like Neil Patrick Harris and T.R. Knight. They come out and people applaud them for bravery. But it’s different for us."

"People don’t appreciate what we do. We work long hours, cultivate an image to satisfy our bosses and the public, and force lovers to be invisible players in our double lives. That’s a shitload of pressure and responsibility."

"You said it, papi. If I have one more fight with a boyfriend who complains I never take him anywhere so we won’t be seen, I’ll just spit."

"Do what I do. Keep their butts in the mansion with delivered food and DVDs. Let them do the club and party scene on their own time."

"I imagine you’re at home a lot now that you’ve got those twin boys. They’re so cute!"

"Thanks, silver fox. We have a play date with Jennifer and Marc and their kids tomorrow. My babies haven’t slept through the night yet. The nanny has her hands full as we speak."

"I know it’s a little tacky of me to ask but did you…"

"Oh, God, no! Surrogate all the way. How could you even think I’d go there? Yuck! Besides, my man would be jealous, especially since he helps with the kids and all."

"Your man?" Anderson raises his eyebrows. "You bitch, you never mentioned anything about a boyfriend all this time! How could you leave me out of the loop?"

Ricky drains his glass and his ears perk up when the bellboy rolling the champagne cart knocks on the front door. "Just like you, Andy, I’m private. Don’t take it personal."