Between Boyfriends (8 page)

For a moment I was torn between applauding his speech, which I vaguely remembered from an Ida Lupino movie, and slapping his wrinkled face indignantly, which would have made me the star of an Ida Lupino movie, but I decided to simply answer the question.

“I’m not suggesting anything. If you can live with yourself, I guess I can too.”

“So you won’t tell your mother about last night?”

“No, I won’t,” I replied.

“Wonderful!” Lenny squealed. “I knew I could count on a brother. Maybe I can show you my generous side sometime.”

Lenny accented his statement by placing his clammy palm on top of my hand. I flinched at this outrageous act of chutzpah right in the middle of the Secaucus Diner and blanched when I realized my mother and her cohorts thought this man was respectable. So I did what any respectable Italian mama’s boy would do: I defended my mother the only way I knew how.

“You listen to me, you old Jew fag. I will keep your secret because I do not want my mother to know what a creep you are. Just because you chose to live in a closet your whole life does not make it all right for you to go to bars and pay for sex when you should be in your own bed watching Jay Leno. You should be reminding young gay men that they don’t have to wind up like you, and that they can choose to be proud of who they are—not teaching them it’s okay to take money from strangers for sex. And if I see you at the auditions for the Christmas Show I will take that moment to tell the entire Salvatore DeNuccio Tenants Group just what you do on your Friday nights. And it goes without saying that you will not be playing Santa! I may not be able to stop you from degrading yourself and the men you buy, but I can stop you from degrading my mother and her friends. You aren’t worthy of their friendship.”

My anger surprised me more than it did Lenny. The night before, when he’d been a nameless, faceless old man shelling out money to help Sebastian buy a new accessory, he’d been a punch line. Now, as I watched him scurry out of the diner, he was a joke. And I was truly frightened that in a few more decades I would become that same joke. When my mother and Audrey returned from the bathroom, I explained that Lenny had forgotten he had to run some errands. Audrey thought it probably had to do with all the volunteer work that he did and I nodded in agreement. If my mother suspected anything had taken place between her son and her friend she didn’t mention it. But the way she hugged me good-bye told me that she knew there was something wrong.

When I exited the Port Authority bus terminal later that day, I wasn’t ready to go home so I started walking downtown. It was good to feel the familiar New York concrete under my feet and the cool air brushing my face. I was tired and I needed to wake up. It was time to face up to certain truths.

I was at a crossroads: I wasn’t young and I wasn’t old. Thus far, I had lived an interesting but mostly emotionally unfulfilling life. I could continue to live that type of life very easily as many others have, but my heart kept reminding me that I wanted something more than just spending my nights at Marys bar and my mornings getting out of some Mary’s bed. I said the words out loud: “I want a boyfriend.” I wanted what my mother had for most of her adult life—a partner, someone to share life and bad jokes with, someone to fuss over and argue with. Seeing how Lenny Abramawitz spent his evenings had made the feeling stronger. The thought of being a lonely, single senior citizen frightened me. As I turned the corner onto 23rd Street, I bumped into a stranger who wasn’t really a stranger at all.

“Oh my God, it’s you!” I cried.

For the second time in less than twenty-four hours I found myself staring into the most beautiful face I had ever seen. And once again that face was smiling back at me.

“Hi, I’m Brian, from last night.”

I took a deep breath and finally found the courage to speak. “Hi, I’m Steven. From right now.”

S
uddenly I understood what it felt like to be one of the nuns in
The Sound of Music.
I wasn’t frustrated because I still had to wear a habit in the hot Austrian sun while Maria got to frolic in a lake wearing a window dressing, or furious because I knew I was fated to become a mere notch in Rolf’s shiny black leather belt while Maria became a Swiss Mrs. with an instant sugar-coated family, but I was downright confused, out of focus, and bemused. One moment I was confident that I would spend the rest of my life living alone in an overpriced one-bedroom apartment with an alley view, very little closet space, and a stove that doubles as a mouse hotel and the next moment I had confidence in confidence alone. Was Brian a darling, a demon, a lamb? I didn’t yet know, but my stomach knew something good was happening and whirled like a dervish.

“I can’t believe this! I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since last night,” Brian admitted.

“Me too,” I said. “What happened?”

“It was Cher’s fault,” Brian said.

“Isn’t everything?” I replied. “I mean first she single-handedly made the world question the infomercial, then she made Epstein-Barr tiresome, and now her endless concerts. She has given the farewell tour a bad name.”

“Totally agree,” Brian began and then continued to speak slowly in one of the most melodic voices I had ever heard. “But I meant that it was my buddy Rodrigo’s birthday and he loves Cher, so when “Take Me Home” came on he got all maniacal and when you get to know Rodrigo you’ll realize that you cannot interrupt him when he’s riding the maniacal merry-go-round, you just have to hop on and go along for the ride. So that’s what I did. And then the DJ sampled “We Got the Beat” and it was like the whole bar turned into an “I Love the ’80s” convention and when I turned around to pull you onto the merry-go-round with me you were gone. I spent the rest of the night looking for you and I figured you got taken home by some hottie and forgot all about me. But now here you are. And I’m the only one talking, I’m sorry. I do that when I’m nervous or when I see a guy I’ve been thinking about nonstop.”

“Well, why don’t you shut up, take a deep breath, and come have a cup of coffee with me?”

Startled, Brian smiled wickedly.

“A take-charge kinda man,” Brian said. “I kinda like that.”

And so I took my charge to Starbucks so we could discover a bit more about each other while drinking liquid ambrosia. As we entered the shop that had redefined how the world drank coffee, my stomach whirled again, and this time it was definitely in anticipation of something not-so-good happening. No matter how hard I tried to masquerade as a confident, take-charge kind of guy, I couldn’t mask the fact that this was an important meet ’n’ greet. It couldn’t simply be coincidence that Brian should round the corner at the exact moment I was contemplating my future; I tossed my request for a boyfriend into the universe and the universe responded by tossing me Brian. Universally speaking, this meeting could end in one of three ways and only one of those ways would ensure my future as a fulfilled, nonbitter, and chronically happy adult gay man. Either Brian would gulp down his Starbucks and flee once he realized I was unworthy of nonstop thought; we would go back to his place and have incredible, porn-worthy nonstop one-night-stand sex; or he would ask me out on a date so we could begin our passionate, nonstop miniseries-worthy love affair. Feeling much more like a chaste Richard Chamberlain from
The Thornbirds
than the take-charge Richard Chamberlain of
Shōgun
, I decided that my whirling stomach was an indication that this encounter would turn into something heartfelt and not heartless.

“So why don’t we start at the very beginning,” I said.

“That’s a very good place to start,” Brian replied.

“What’s your full name?”

“Brian Patrick Oldsboro. And you?”

“Steven Bartholomew Ferrante. Age?”

“Thirty-two.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“Perfect, I like older men.”

“I’m Italian Catholic from Jersey.”

“Lapsed Baptist from Alabama.”

“Really?” I said, not hiding my disappointment very well.

“Is that a problem?” Brian asked.

“You know something, it’s actually a good thing,” I replied. “My mother is going to have to find a flaw in you anyway. It might as well be religion.”

“You have one of those mothers too?”

“Anjanette is the president of the club.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. My mother’s held that position for years.”

“No, seriously, my mother’s the president of the tenants’ group in her senior citizens’ building. Or as I like to call it, the insane asylum.”

Brian stared at me intently and then said, “I can’t wait to meet her. And the rest of the inmates.”

With that one sentence I knew that Brian wouldn’t be chugging his coffee and that we wouldn’t be having passionate yet meaningless sex within the hour; we would have a relationship. Sometimes you get the vibe and the vibe, like Brian’s vibrantly blue eyes, cannot be ignored. And so I didn’t ignore them, but held his gaze as Brian filled me in on some of the major moments of his life that I had missed. His family’s move to Alabama from New York when Brian was two courtesy of his father’s employer, his move to New York from Alabama when he was twenty-two courtesy of his first employer, his move up the corporate ladder to his current position as Senior Editor at
Upgrade
, the men’s magazine unofficially targeted to men of confused sexual orientation whose official tagline is “For men who want to be on top,” and his move downtown from a long-term sublet on the Upper East Side.

“Now that I live in Chelsea I finally feel like a gay man,” Brian declared.

“Seriously?”

“Well, yeah. I can walk around and be who I am. If I feel like wearing a too-tight T-shirt I can and I don’t have to worry that some breeder couple with two kids is going to roll their eyes at me as I strut by. I know the area can be a gay cliché, but it really is freeing. Where do you live?”

“Hell’s Kitchen. Forty-seventh between Ninth and Tenth,” I said. “Not very glamorous, but I can walk to work. And I’m close to Port Authority so when my mother has a crisis, and you have been warned, Anjanette—that’s her name—is Italian for
panic
, I can be at her place in roughly twenty-five minutes. Twenty if I catch the express bus.”

“You’re close with your mother?”

“Well, she’s a widow. My younger brother, Paulie, lives over an hour away in Sparta—wife, two cars, his own dental practice, he’s got his own issues….”

“You’re all she has.”

“Not all, just most. But I don’t mind. She drives me absolutely bonkers, but she loves me, she’s always accepted me, and has never judged me. Except for when I make a really bad fashion choice, and she’s always right. Like the time I wore plaid on plaid. I don’t know what I was thinking except that it was the eighties and like you said, there’s something about that decade that made people act freaky.”

“I know! Summer 1986, I was totally asymmetrical. Every hair on the left side of my body was shaved and I let the right side grow out. I still have to fill out my left eyebrow with a pencil. See?”

Brian leaned forward so I could get a better look at his eyebrow. His hand brushed against my forearm and I got a whiff of his smell—a little sweet, almost citrusy. I liked it. I noticed his eyebrow and it was obvious that he was very skilled with an eyebrow pencil, but then I looked down just a bit and into his eyes and surprised myself. Instead of dwelling on how long it had been since I had such a spontaneously intimate encounter with a man, I allowed the simplicity of the moment to waft over me and didn’t look away. This was the way a meet ’n’ greet should be, easy and filled with promise.

“I have to go now,” Brian announced.

And abrupt segues.

“I’m sorry, but I have to get home and do some work.”

Brian explained that he had two articles to edit for freelance assignments and was already past his deadlines. One article was “How to Organize the Perfect Closet,” which he knew nothing about since he was a self-described slob with a Venezuelan maid named Viva who came in once a week. I refrained from telling him that I was the most organized person I knew other than Martha Stewart’s personal assistant, but made a mental note that it might be worthwhile to invest in a French maid’s outfit. The second article was on “Man Boobs,” which he admitted he did know a little something about, but he was adamant that it was only for one summer when he was thirteen, overweight, and hormonal.

“Petey Verderammo had man boobs in eighth grade,” I recalled. “His mother was a lunch lady and very strict. Whenever he cheated on his diet she made him wear a bra.”

“That’s fabulous! Do you have Petey’s number so I can interview him?”

“Sadly, no one knows where Petey is today. Rumor has it he had a sex change, but, really, how could you tell?”

“Well, the only way I can afford to be a Chelsea Boy is to do lots of freelance work.”

“I understand,” I said. “I’ve been engaged to my job for some time now as well.”

“Would your job be jealous if I took you out to dinner on Monday night?” he asked.

“She’ll just have to get over it,” I replied. “Because I can’t think of a better way to start my week than with a Monday night date.”

“Beats
Monday Night Football.
”

Unless you’re beating off watching the hot, sweaty, football players pound the shit out of each other on the hard, uncompromising Astroturf.

That last sentence I kept to myself, but being in Brian’s presence was very arousing. Instead of swapping saliva, we swapped cell phone numbers and engaged in a clumsy hug. For a moment it looked like our first kiss was going to take place right next to the Starbucks condiment station (which for me would have been further proof that the universe understood me), but Brian sort of blushed and whispered that he didn’t want our first kiss to be under fluorescent lighting or in front of an audience. Personally I find the lighting in Starbucks to be quite diffuse, but I was glad to hear that Brian wasn’t an exhibitionist. Public sex is fun in your twenties, but after thirty it makes you look needy.

We parted ways, he going downtown, me going up, both happy in the moment and hopeful about the moments to come. On my way home I said a prayer to Baby Jesus asking him to allow me to survive until Monday night. I bartered that if he kept me safe until my date with Brian I would see the inside of a church one more time and not just for a wedding or a funeral, plus make a moderate donation. Then I realized my bartering was a form of blackmail accented with an amen, and no matter what religious angle you looked at it from, blackmailing Baby Jesus wasn’t a good thing. So I said another prayer asking for forgiveness for my first prayer and tagged on the simple request that Baby Jesus allow me to enjoy myself Monday night and open up my heart to all of Brian’s goodness. I was rather impressed with myself as this prayer not only acknowledged that Brian was virtuous, but put the onus on me to have a successful date. The quest for morality and the potential for guilt all in one prayer: it was quintessentially Catholic.

As was my mother. Before I could even undress and plug in my vibrator to engage in a masturbatory session starring Brian and me as quarterbacks for rival high school football teams, she called.

“Steven, are you all right? I’m worried.”

“I’m fine, Ma.”

“You weren’t yourself today. You were preoccupied and distant. You reminded me of your father.”

“Funny how things can change in just a few hours.”

“Really? So what’s his name?”

That Anjanette had the instincts of a bloodhound.

“If we ever get to the second date, I’ll tell you.”

“You’ve had a first date already?”

“Not an official one, but soon.”

“Have you set a date yet?”

I hesitated briefly, then decided as much as I loved my mother full disclosure wasn’t wise. “Not yet, but we will.”

The next day I met Flynn for coffee and filled him in on the events of the past twenty-four hours. As expected, he was thrilled for me. Like the rest of us, Flynn bobs and weaves amid the emotional waves that define a gay man’s personal life, but ever since he tested positive he has decided to let optimism reign in his world, so his cup is always half full. What’s more, he’s always willing to share his cup with his friends.

“Since Frank didn’t pan out, let me buy you an outfit for your official first date with Brian,” Flynn exclaimed.

And we were off. I don’t usually let Flynn buy me clothes, but this was a special occasion and since his promotion to Senior Vice President of Business and Legal Affairs at one of the top talent agencies in the city he has a few more zeros at the end of his yearly salary than I do. We decided I should wear something classic to prove that I was a grounded gay, but something with a hint of trendiness to remind him that I was still, after all, gay. After some debate we settled on Banana Republic because that’s where all the straight men go to look just a little bit gay and vice versa. Flynn convinced me that the olive green French cuff dress shirt would make my green eyes pop and the simple black straight-leg pants with a tinge of Lycra would show off any popping that might take place down yonder. The black side-buckle cuff-boots were the finishing touch in an ensemble that shouted husband material to any sexual orientation.

“You can wear the black onyx cufflinks that were your father’s,” Flynn suggested.

“Great, I always wanted my dad to chaperone my dates.”

“Better your dead father than Anjanette.”

Reveling in our girlie-girl shopping escapade, we almost didn’t see the spectacle of Gus and Brady making out in the sale section. When I saw Brady sucking face with Gus underneath last season’s marked-down paisley pants and white collar ’n’ cuff dress shirts, I felt vindicated. Brady was cheap.

“Gussie, look! It’s your friends!” Brady shouted.

Gus looked nonplussed. Brady, in contrast, was nondiscreet.

“We just had sex in the dressing room!” Brady declared.