“I didn’t fuck Luke.” Jeff scowls at me. “Are you thinking we had sex?”
“Oh, come on, Jeff.”
“I swear, Henry. We did not have sex. Not so much as a kiss.”
Here’s one thing I can say about Jeff. He doesn’t lie to me. Even if he tried, I could tell. We’ve been through so much together that I’d be able to see it in his eyes. I look at him now and see he’s being completely honest.
“Not that I wouldn’t have liked to,” Jeff admits, “and not that I think he would have objected.” He smiles smugly for a moment, but then his expression changes. It becomes more serious, more contemplative. “But it’s weird, Henry…”
“What’s weird?”
Jeff shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “Ever since Lloyd and I started planning for our wedding, I haven’t wanted to—no, that’s wrong, sometimes I’ve wanted to—but it just hasn’t felt right to sleep with anybody else.”
“What? Am I hearing correctly?”
He sticks his tongue out at me. “Yes, Henry, I’m saying I’m holding back. For now, anyway.”
“Jeff O’Brien? Monogamous?” I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.
“For now.” He looks over at the guesthouse. “I haven’t even discussed it with Lloyd. It’s not carved in cement. It’s just how I’m feeling right now at this moment.” He smiles. “It’s a pretty awesome feeling, you know. The man I love loving me enough to want to commit to me for all time.”
I hold his gaze. I remember a rainy night in Boston, back when Jeff and Lloyd were living apart. It must have been about seven, eight years ago. It was one of their rough patches, and I could see how much Jeff missed him. He’d taken out his photograph album and was leafing through it, pointing out to me pictures of Lloyd back in the days when they’d first met. A young, bushy-haired twentysomething in lycra bicycle shorts. I remember how Jeff traced the contours of the image with his finger. He wasn’t good at confessing his feelings back then—he’s only marginally better now—but the heartache was plain on his face.
“So many times,” Jeff told me then, “Lloyd has felt this restlessness inside him…and each time, when he goes off to clear his head, I think this is it. This time he’s not coming back.”
But he always did. Lloyd’s old restlessness—the impulse that led him to me, in fact—has been quiet these past several years. Running this guesthouse, he’s blossomed, and Jeff’s concurrent success has meant the two of them, finally, are happy and content together.
At least, they seem happy and content. For, in truth, I often wonder about their contentment. They’ve been together now, off and on, for more than a decade, and it’s clear they aren’t the passionate lovers of their youth. If they were, they wouldn’t require all those boys climbing up their stairs, sometimes with just Jeff, sometimes with just Lloyd, oftentimes with both at the same time. It’s the boys who keep the sexual spark alive between them, I believe. If they gave up the boys, what might happen? I often wonder if it’s the boys who actually keep them together.
I look at Jeff, sipping his coffee, lost in thought. How had he put it? The man I love loving me enough to want to commit to me for all time. I must admit it is a pretty awesome scenario. What I wouldn’t give for such a thing—and there were times Jeff himself could never have imagined such a future. Once again my mind goes back to those lonely days in Boston, when we sat together poring over his photo albums. But now Lloyd was planning on announcing to the world that he belonged to Jeff and Jeff belonged to him. Quite awesome indeed.
And now Jeff is feeling—monogamous? If the boys disappear, what then? I wonder. Is it possible to still get hot over a body you’ve slept beside for sixteen years? Is it possible to ever really have only one person in your life—only one person who fulfills all of your hopes, all of your desires, all of your needs? Does such a One exist?
I want to believe there is. I want so much to believe in the One. I could have loved Joey—or Daniel—or Lloyd—for all time. I know that. I could have loved them emotionally and spiritually and yes, physically—from the day we met until the day we died. I know that. I feel it in my heart.
Part of me, deep down, believes that there must be something wrong between Jeff and Lloyd. That they don’t really love each other—at least, they don’t love each other enough. Because if they did, there would be no need for the boys. Twenty-two or forty-two, they’d still be boned at the simple sight of each other. There would be no need for anyone else. If Lloyd had only given me a chance, I could have shown…
No. I put an end to my thoughts. I can’t allow myself to think that way. It’s not right. Jeff and Lloyd are my best friends. I won’t picture myself in Jeff’s place, standing next to Lloyd saying “I do.”
Besides, it’s no fun going down that road. All I do is get depressed all over again, and I’m tired of being depressed. Lloyd says, in fact, that getting weary of one’s depression is a good sign that one is coming out of it.
“Jeff,” I say, drawing close to him, “I think it’s pretty natural that you don’t want to trick while you’re planning for the wedding. It’s actually quite sweet. In fact, you ought to talk about it with Lloyd. Maybe he feels the same way.”
“Well,” he says, “I just don’t want to scare him off.” He chuckles. “Like suddenly I’m demanding monogamy and becoming this shrew of a wife.”
“Somehow, I can’t imagine you ever demanding monogamy. And I don’t think he’ll see it that way, either.” I smirk. “Of course, this new attitude of yours does ruin the gift I was planning to get you for your wedding.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I was going to hire Matthew Rush to surprise you on your honeymoon.”
Matthew Rush is Jeff’s favorite porn star. “Hey,” Jeff says, laughing, “after the ceremony, anything goes.” He winks at me. “Unfortunately, however, Matthew’s not for hire. Believe me, I’ve checked.”
“Well, I’m impressed you didn’t sleep with Luke,” I tell him finally. “The way he was throwing himself at you.”
“At me? Henry, he slept with you.”
“Only so he could meet you.” I cut him off before he objects. “Oh, come on. Carrying around all your books? The whole ‘I want to be a writer’ thing. He’s totally obsessed with you. It’s obvious.”
Jeff shrugs. “Better lock my underwear drawer.”
“You should take this seriously, Jeff. I’ll be honest. I don’t trust him. Even when I first met him, he seemed to be a schemer. That brain of his is always plotting his next move. I’m keeping my eye on him.”
“Henry?”
I spin around. And there’s Luke, standing right behind me. How much has he heard?
“Should I start cleaning the rooms?” he asks. He apparently heard nothing, or he’s playing innocent. “I’d like to get started so that I can spend the afternoon writing.” He casts a look over at his idol. “I know you write best in the morning, Jeff, and so do I—but I guess from here on, I’ve got to make do with the time I have.”
Jeff smiles.
“It’s like you said when you were being interviewed on This Way Out,” Luke continues. “You said, ‘If one is serious about writing, every excuse to avoid it will fail. You’ll find time to write on your lunch hour, or during the time you usually spent watching television. Or you’ll get up at four in the morning. If you’re serious, you’ll always find the time.’”
Jeff’s smile fades, just a little. “I think those may have been my exact words.”
“I live by them,” Luke tells him. “Hey, there’s that cat again.”
I clap my hands to scare it away. “Damn thing. Cats are so sneaky.”
Jeff looks at me coldly. “You know, you really need to work on your catphobia.”
“I love cats,” Luke chirps. “You have one, right, Jeff? Mr. Tompkins? You talked about him in an interview in Bay Windows.”
Jeff looks a little uneasy that Luke knows all this information about him. “Yes, I have
a cat. He’s been with Lloyd and me for a long time.”
“I love cats,” Luke repeats. “You know, it’s hard in gay culture to come out as a cat-lover.”
“Yes,” Jeff agrees cautiously. “that’s what I said in the interview…”
“It’s like it’s just not cool for a gay man to be into cats—the way lesbians are, anyway, or the way most gay guys are into their dogs.”
Jeff is starting to smile. “Well, you know the faggot-canine connection is a long and honorable one. You see it on every street in every gay ghetto.”
“I know!” Luke says. “You have to have a dog so you can strike up a conversation!”
“Well,” Jeff says, “it’s easier to chat up a hunky blonde walking down Commercial Street if he’s got a golden retriever with him. ‘Hey, nice dog,’ you say, when what you really mean is ‘Hey, nice abs.’”
“I know!” Luke says. “But when you ask gay men if they like cats, they invariably look at you a little funny, as if you’d just asked them if they liked drinks with little parasols in them or the music of Holly Near.”
Jeff laughs. Damn. The kid is winning him over again.
“Cats are considered girly,” Luke continues. “Dogs are manly—except poodles, but they don’t count.”
“Yeah, if you have a poodle, you’re an old queen,” Jeff says.
“I know a very hot guy in town who has a poodle,” I say petulantly.
“You know,” Luke says, ignoring me, “maybe that’s why so many gay men claim to be allergic to cats.”
“Have you noticed that, too?” Jeff asks. “There’s got to be a correlation. None of my straight friends—or my lesbian friends—are allergic to cats. But gay men start sniveling as soon as you tell them there’s a cat in the house. When one trick I brought home suggested I put my cat outside for the, um, duration, I tossed him out instead.”
“And do you know what’s so cool about cats?” Luke asks. “They could care less about what you do with some guy. Cats want no part of it. If cats could roll their eyes in disinterest at two guys in bed, they would. Dogs, on the other hand, will jump up onto the bed, tongues wagging, saliva dripping, as if they want to make it a three-way.”
“Dogs are loyal,” I protest. “Dogs are devoted. Dogs are loving. Dogs are fun.”
“Dogs are wet,” Luke says. “Dogs are loud. Dogs remind me of needy fag hags who’ll do anything to keep their gay boys happy. Or some co-dependent boyfriend who doesn’t even let us go to the bathroom alone.”
Jeff gets a big kick out of that. Luke sure knows how to score points.
“It’s so wrong how cat-hating is accepted in this culture,” Luke says.
“My point in the interview exactly,” Jeff says. But he no longer seems unnerved by how much Luke remembers about it.
“In cartoons, dogs are always the heroes and cats are the villains. The whole point of a Sylvester cartoon was to watch Tweety Bird drop an anvil on the poor cat’s head. And everybody on TV had a dog—from the Waltons to the Bradys to the girls on The Facts of Life. But only witches had cats.”
“To me,” Jeff says, “cats should be the gay men’s pet of choice. No dirty clean-up. No running home in the middle of tea dance to take it out for a leak. Cats are what we as gay men aspire to be. Cool. Slightly mysterious, completely autonomous, perfectly groomed.”
“So why hasn’t it happened?” I ask.
“It’s obvious, Henry,” Luke tells me. “A cat would never, ever, consent to being put on a leash.”
Jeff loves it. He drops an arm around my shoulder and leans in as if to share a secret. “You see, buddy, cats are tops, and most gay men are loath to advertise their bottomness walking down the street. With a dog, they can pretend to be master. But just let some faggot try to saddle up a cat and take him out for a trot. He’ll quickly learn you can’t use a cat to get the double takes or the chance to score.”
“I can’t wait to meet your cat,” Luke says. “Where was he yesterday?”
“Mr. Tompkins is an old guy. He likes to hide out. Come on over, and I’ll introduce you—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt. “But Luke has work to do.”
“Oops,” Luke says. “Of course.” He smiles at me. “So will you show me where the laundry is?”
I let out a sigh. “Yeah. Come on. Follow me.” I turn to Jeff as I start to walk away. “By the way, your sister wants you to do something with J. R. today. Maybe take him out on the boat. The kid seems depressed.”
Jeff shrugs. “I just saw him and suggested we go jetskiing. But he said he just wanted to listen to his new CD. On a beautiful day like today!” He makes a face. “Kids. Who can figure them out?”
I head up the path toward the house after another kid I can’t quite figure out. Inside, I yank open the cellar door and pull the string for the overhead light. I gesture to Luke to follow me down into the musty darkness. Lloyd wants to remodel the basement into a game room, but that’s still another year or two down the road in his business plan.
“Okay,” I’m telling Luke as we reach the bottom, “I’ve already tossed some of the sheets down here. All the rooms are going to need fresh linens and towels for—”
I feel a hand grab my crotch.
“Henry,” Luke purrs, his lips at my ear.
I pull forcefully away. “I meant what I said, Luke,” I tell him. “No more of that.”
“No one will know,” he says, his eyes burning in the near-darkness.
“Do you want this job, Luke?” I draw close to him, meeting his eyes directly. “Or do you want to fuck it up? If you fuck it up, you’ve lost your best chance to stay close to Jeff.”
He backs off.
“Just as I thought. You wouldn’t want to screw anything up between you and Jeff.” I pause, rubbing my chin as I observe him. “What I’m not sure is, do you just want him because you find him hot, or is there more? Is it even just hero worship? Or do you think he can turn you into the next literary wunderkind?”
Luke says nothing, just stares at me.
“Let me tell you something, buddy boy.” I draw in very close, just an inch from his face. “Jeff and Lloyd are getting married, and they don’t need some sexy little number like you waltzing in and coming between them. And if you’re thinking Jeff will introduce you to his agent or send your manuscript to his publisher, you’ve got another surprise coming to you. Do you know how often Jeff gets approached to do that? Do you know how many wannabe writers with stars in their eyes try to foist their manuscripts on him? I can assure you he’s not going there with you, just like he won’t go there with anyone.”
I wait to see what he might say, but Luke remains silent.
“So,” I say, “what will it be then, Luke? If there’s not going to be any sex—with me or with Jeff—and if there’s not going to be any book deal at the end of this little houseboy stint, do you want to quit now? I’m just laying it all out for you, so you know your options. What will it be?”
He regards me steely-eyed for several seconds. The seconds stretch into a minute, in fact, before he finally speaks.
“Where’s the laundry detergent?” he asks.
I don’t move from my position. I just keep staring at him.
“The laundry detergent, Henry,” he says calmly. “How can I do my job without any laundry detergent?”
I hold his gaze for one second longer. “Behind you on the shelf,” I say.
“Thank you.”
Luke moves off to retrieve it. I head toward the stairs.
“I’ll toss down the rest of the linens,” I say. “And after you’ve got them loaded, I’ll show you where we keep the supplies for cleaning the bathrooms.”
“Yes, sir,” Luke replies as he stoops to gather the sheets on the floor into his tight, sinewy arms.
I turn away and head upstairs.
I was right. My job has just become hell.
MY BED
That night, I have a dream.
I’m back in my parents’
home, in West Springfield, Massachusetts. I’m fifteen. I’m getting ready to go out with my best friend Jack, the boy who introduced me to grunge music and, not incidentally, the first person who ever told me he was gay. Jack’s two years older than I am; he stayed back in school at least one grade. So he’s got his driver’s license, and in my dream, I’m once again riding around with him, reliving a night that seemed to sum up everything I was at the time.
And maybe still am.
Men Who Love Men Page 9
