Men Who Love Men

by William J. Mann

  Luke is still gushing. “And I loved the interview you gave to The Advocate about it. You know, where you revealed that you, like the protagonist, were also an old movie and TV fan.”

  Jeff twinkles on cue. “You mean the interview where I came out of the closet as a secret geek.”

  The boy’s smile threatens to close his eyes with his cheeks. “You are so not a geek. I’m a geek.”

  “Well, if so,” Jeff says, “geeks are a lot cuter these days than they used to be.”

  I feel my stomach roil, and it’s not the fried clams.

  Luke is clearly smitten. He’s rummaging in his backpack again, and produces something I can’t at first identify. It’s flat, and wrapped in plastic.

  “Take a look at this,” he’s telling Jeff.

  It looks like a small movie poster. Slipped into a plastic bag and backed by a piece of a cardboard, it showcases a woman I don’t recognize. Jeff takes it from Luke’s hands and gazes at it with a kind of wonder.

  “Holy shit,” he says. “A lobby card from Becky Sharp!”

  “Yeah,” Luke replies, in the same breathless tone of awe.

  “Excuse me,” I say, “I hate to interrupt, but who the fuck is Becky Sharp?”

  Jeff glares at me. “Becky Sharp just so happens to be the very first feature film made in Technicolor.”

  “Yeah,” Luke adds, though he doesn’t look at me, keeping his eyes squarely on Jeff. “And in 1935, starring the amazing Miriam Hopkins.”

  “Miriam who?” I ask.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” Jeff tells me. “Miriam Hopkins is very big for true film fans, one of the forgotten greats.”

  “Well, in fact,” Luke says, reaching into his bag again, “look what else I have.” He pulls out a videotape in a battered cardboard slipcover. “I’ve got one of Miriam’s last appearances—on the TV show The Outer Limits.”

  Jeff takes the videotape and inspects it. “The Outer Limits! That was a great show. Sometimes even better than The Twilight Zone.”

  “I agree,” says Luke. “Do you know both Geraldine Brooks and Sally Kellerman appeared on it?”

  I laugh. “Are they favorites of true film fans, too?”

  Luke eyes me. “For true fans, Henry, the people on the screen can sometimes seem like your best friends.”

  “But why,” Jeff asks, lifting his eyebrows at Luke, “are you carrying these around in your backpack? You don’t want that lobby card to get damaged.”

  “I know,” the boy answers. “But I just don’t feel comfortable leaving it back in my hotel room. If the maid found it…”

  Jeff hands the precious relics back to Luke. “You’re staying at an inn?”

  Luke nods. “Until I can find a permanent place.”

  I notice the smile creep across Jeff’s face. “You’re planning to move here?”

  “Yes, so I can…” Luke’s voice trails off.

  “So you can what?” Jeff asks.

  “Oh, please,” I say to Luke, impatient with this little charade, “just tell him.”

  “So I can write.” The boy blushes. “Like I have any business saying that to you.”

  Jeff beams. No one on the entire planet is more susceptible to flattery than Jeff O’Brien. It’s impossible to lay it on too thick with him. He just laps it up like a pig eating slops.

  “A writer, huh?” Jeff smiles. “Well, Provincetown can be a wonderful muse…”

  “So I’ve heard.” Luke carefully returns Becky Sharp to his backpack. “And your novels are a big reason why I’m here.”

  “I’m flattered,” Jeff says.

  “No, really, I mean it.” Luke returns his eyes to Jeff with a passion that exceeds anything I saw yesterday while we were having sex. “Your work has had such an influence on me. Your words…they’ve changed my life.”

  That’s when I stand up, grip the sides of the table, and puke all over both of them. Diet Coke and bits of fried clams rain down on their heads.

  Okay, so I imagine that part. But for the moment, anyway, the fantasy allows my stomach to stop lurching.

  “That’s awfully sweet of you,” Jeff’s saying. There’s a moment of eye-holding silence that leaves me feeling utterly invisible. Finally Jeff asks, smiling warmly at Luke, “Would you like me to sign your books?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure,” Jeff says.

  What a guy. So magnanimous.

  Luke produces a pen from his backpack. Is there anything he doesn’t keep in there? Jeff opens the first book to its title page, pausing to think before he writes. Then, suddenly, without warning, he reaches down and pulls his T-shirt up over his head, revealing his defined pecs and abs. “Damn,” he says, “it’s so hot out today.”

  “It is so not hot out today,” I say, unable to keep quiet.

  But I’m ignored. Luke is mesmerized as a shirtless Jeff O’Brien signs his books. What our esteemed author writes, I don’t know, and in truth, I don’t care to know. But Luke reads each inscription in turn, cooing appreciatively, and replacing each book in his backpack. When they’re done with their little playlet, they just sit there, two naked torsos grinning stupidly across the table at each other. The sexual energy between them is so strong it could power a small city.

  My mind goes back to a night some five, six years before.

  “But I thought he loved me,” the boy from Montreal was saying. What was his name again? Jean-Pierre? Jean-Michel? Something like that. There have been many boys from many different places, beautiful boys who fell in love with Jeff and were crushed to discover his affection for them barely lasted through the week. And most of those boys turned to Henry Weiner for counseling and consolation.

  Will it be the same with Luke? Once Jeff is done with him, will he come running back to me? Will I let him?

  But as I watch them, I feel the situation is a little different this time. Jeff, for all his smooth skin and still tight abs, is no longer the young buck that he was. He’s not out there in the scene in the way he used to be, partly because he doesn’t have the stamina to stay up all night the way he used to but also because he’s no longer quite the focus the way he was in years past. Back in the day, all eyes in the room would turn to look when Jeff O’Brien walked in. But now, as well preserved as he might be, Jeff has discovered the playing field can never be truly level for him again—not when he’s facing off against a new class of twentysomethings.

  Like Luke.

  And that’s the other reason this time is different. Luke is no wide eyed kid still green in the ways of gay life, like so many of Jeff’s previous boys have been. Jean-Michel—and Raphael and Eduardo and Anthony—were all refreshingly free of guile. But looking at Luke, I see very clearly that he’s been around the rodeo a couple of times. After all, he’d known to search me out and to sleep with me, all part of his nefarious plan to meet Jeff.

  And how well that had worked out, all within a day. I wonder if Luke had spotted Jeff on his way into town? Was that why he’d insisted we leave the pier? Had he know somehow we’d run into Jeff? Even if he hadn’t maneuvered their meeting, the kid had known exactly what to do once his prey showed up. Out came the flattery in generous helpings, topped by that well-timed appearance of Supergirl in her carefully wrapped plastic bag. Luke was good. No question about that. Shrewd. Unlike Jeff’s other boys, this time both sides had their own games to play.

  “You know what?” Jeff is asking, breaking the charged silence that pulses between him and Luke. “You ought to stop by my house when you have the time. I’ll show you my entire collection of movie posters.” He lowers his voice into a sexy whisper. “I’ve got one from The Birth of a Nation.”

  “No way!” Luke gushes. “From 1915?”

  Jeff nods. “Not quite near-mint, but pretty fine.”

  “When can I come by and see it?”

  “What are you doing right now?”

  “Nothing,” Luke says. Then, as if remembering there’s another human being seated next to him, he tur
ns to me. “Except that Henry and I were—”

  “Go ahead,” I tell him. “Who am I to keep you from The Birth of a Nation?”

  “You’ll come too?” Luke asks.

  I make a face. “I’ve already seen Jeff’s movie posters.”

  “You sure you guys weren’t doing anything?” Jeff asks me, standing up, apparently forgetting about the lunch he’d been about to order for himself. Or maybe he’s just decided he’s hungry for something other than a grilled chicken sandwich. It seems he might prefer his chicken raw.

  “Not to worry,” I assure him. “Luke and I weren’t doing a thing. I’ve actually got to head into town. I’m meeting a friend.”

  “Well, come on over around seven,” Jeff tells me, motioning to Luke to follow him. “Elliot and Oscar are in town, and they’re coming for dinner.”

  “I’ll try to make it,” I say, staying seated as Luke zips up his bag and hurries around to follow Jeff. “But I can’t promise.”

  “Who’re you meeting in town?” Jeff asks.

  “Oh…no one you know.”

  Luke stops suddenly and looks over his shoulder at me. “Want to hang out again tomorrow, Henry?”

  “I’m going out of town,” I tell him.

  “Well, I’ll call you.”

  I give him a little salute. “Say hello to Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks for me. I think Jeff has them, too.”

  “Really? Awesome!”

  And then Luke is gone, trotting out after Jeff onto Commercial Street.

  I take one last sip of my Diet Coke through my straw, making that sucking sound against the bottom of the paper cup. I pick a few crumbs off the plate in front of me, placing them in my mouth, one by one. A gull lands on a post not far from me, folding in its wings against its body. It stares resolutely at me. I look away.

  “If you ask me,” comes a voice to my right, “that guy is a shmuck.”

  I glance over. At the next table is a guy I recognize from the gym. A real hottie, in fact, with dark eyes and a closely shaven head, and very round biceps that stand out against his tank top like small grapefruits. I don’t know his name, but apparently he witnessed the entire scene between Jeff, Luke, and me.

  “Excuse me?” I ask. “What guy?”

  “That Jeff O’Brien.” The hottie nods toward the street. “You came in here with that kid, and he took off with him.”

  “Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “It’s not like that.”

  “Whatever.” The guy takes a bite of his hamburger. “I shouldn’t say anything. It’s none of my business.”

  “No, really, Luke and I—there’s nothing between us. And Jeff’s just taking him back to show him his movie posters.”

  The hottie practically spits out his burger. “What, were his etchings in storage?”

  I smirk. “It’s really okay.”

  He wipes his mouth with his napkin and stands, reaching across his table toward mine and extending his hand. “I’m Gale,” he says.

  “Henry,” I say, shaking his hand.

  “Seen you at the gym,” Gale says, sitting back down.

  “Seen you too.”

  Had I ever. This guy has a fucking amazing body. He must do two hundred chin ups and then, for good measure—or maybe just to show off—he flips himself over the bar a few times. And when he does a leg press, I sometimes have to force myself to look away, so hot are those bulging calves.

  Yet for such a well-muscled body, it’s a delicate one, too, in a way. Gale can’t be more than five-seven, and his waist is tiny. Twenty-eight, probably. Maybe even twenty-seven. His features are soft and pretty, almost like a girl’s. Not really my type—but there’s no denying this guy is hotness personified.

  I don’t know why I feel I need to defend Jeff, but I do. “Jeff is just a natural-born flirt,” I tell Gale. “I’m totally used to it. And that kid…well, I knew all along it was Jeff he wanted to meet.”

  Gale shrugs. “I still think it was rude. But it’s none of my business.”

  “Jeff’s my best friend,” I go on. “He seems shallow, but he’s not. Please don’t think badly of him. Inside, he’s a sweetheart, and he’d do anything for somebody he cares about. Really.”

  “Okay,” Gale says, smiling. “I believe you.”

  “Good.” I laugh. “I can’t have people thinking badly of him. I’m going to be the best man at his wedding.”

  “At his wedding? And meanwhile he’s taking this twinkie back to his place?”

  “It’s…a long story.”

  “No, it’s not,” Gale says, shaking his head. “Non-monogamy rules the gay world.”

  “Not my gay world,” I tell him.

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “Really? Is that true, Henry? Are you really one of those rare believers in monogamy?”

  I laugh awkwardly. Why am I talking so much? I don’t even know this guy. But I continue, just the same. Talking, in fact, suddenly feels good. “Well, I believe in it for me, anyway,” I explain. “If other guys can make open relationships work, then good for them. I just never could.”

  And never would, I suddenly think, if it were me marrying Lloyd. If Lloyd was my lover, there’s no way I’d be bringing some twinkie in off the street for a quickie.

  “Well, Henry, I’m glad to hear it,” Gale is saying. He stands up, carries his tray to the trash, and slides the remains of his lunch into the barrel. Then he turns and walks back over to me. He stands in front of the picnic table where I’m sitting. “In fact,” he says, “hearing that makes me want to ask you out to dinner. How about it?”

  I stare up at him, momentarily unable to speak. “Yeah, sure,” I say finally.

  “When?” Gale asks.

  “Anytime,” I reply, still looking up into his big round brown eyes.

  “Well, tomorrow’s no good,” Gale says.

  “No?” I ask.

  He grins knowingly. “You told the kid you were going out of town.”

  I can’t resist smiling myself. “Well, I think my plans might change.”

  Gale’s grin broadens. “When will you know for certain?”

  “Right now.” I stand, realizing I’m a couple of heads taller than he is. But height hardly matters—not when I’m caught in the gaze of those soft brown eyes. “What time do you want to meet,” I ask, “and where?”

  “How about seven-thirty at Café Heaven?”

  “Good deal,” I say. We shake. Gale’s hand is small in my own, but his grip is firm and masculine.

  “See you tomorrow night then,” he says, heading out.

  “Yeah, see you tomorrow night,” I echo.

  I watch him hop on his bike and ride away. Those amazing calves flex as he pumps the pedals, and his butt looks pretty damn good, too, as it lifts off the seat.

  I carry my own tray to the trash. My eyes find those of the gull, who’s still sitting there staring at me.

  “You can go now,” I whisper. “Everything’s done here.”

  The bird spreads its wings and flaps away.

  I smile to myself, and head home.

  MY ROOM

  When do we stop dreaming?

  Do we still dream at sixty? At seventy? At eighty? Do we still hope to find what we haven’t yet found? Do we never give up?

  I get into bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about Gale.

  My future husband.

  I laugh to myself and shift the pillows behind my head.

  Outside, it’s started to rain. I can hear the steady tap-tap-tapping against the skylights. Inevitably my thoughts drift back to a year and a half ago. Few things in life were ever sweeter than falling asleep next to Joey on a rainy night. He’d always nod off before I did, breathing softly in my ear. I’d just lie there, inhaling the fragrance of his air, listening to the rain on the roof. Sometimes I’d hold off from falling asleep, just wanting to savor the moment, as if I knew it was too good to last.

  Why does it always come back to Joey? Or Daniel? Or Lloyd? Why do I grieve my former lovers
so, even after I make a date with a hot little jock? Why is being alone so goddamn hard?

  Two months after Joey dumped me, the phone rang, and somehow I knew it was him. “I’m leaving Provincetown,” he said to me. “I can’t seem to make it here.” He was moving to New York. Did I want to meet him for coffee before he left?