Men Who Love Men

by William J. Mann

  “It sucks,” I say to Jeff.

  He smiles, still looking at the photograph. “There was a time I really agreed with you,” he says. “I hated getting older. It’s not easy anywhere, but in gay life it’s particularly difficult.” He moves his eyes over to me. “But that’s when I was still going out, still doing the circuit, jumping from P-town to Montreal to Miami to Palm Springs. There was always another party, and always another set of boys just entering the scene. I felt like I had to keep up with them.” He smiles, looking off toward the horizon. “But thankfully, there comes a point when all that no longer matters quite so much…”

  I scoff. “I’d believe you, Jeff, if you weren’t going in for laser hair removal and Botox.”

  He laughs. “Oh, I didn’t say I was totally over it. If I can still get away with it, why not?” He puts his arm around me. “But lately…” His voice trails off. “Maybe it’s the wedding again. Sometimes I think it’s enough just to have looked this way once.” He holds up the photo, and we both gaze at it. “That was you once, Henry. Maybe it’s enough just to remember our youth, and not keep trying to relive it.”

  I take the photo back from him. “Well, I’m not yet ready to throw in the towel,” I say. “You had a lot more years out there than I did, Jeff. I didn’t get my fill. I want to get back in shape. I want to look good again. I want to get back out there.” I smile. “Give me the name of the laser doctor.”

  “I will, but first let me ask you a question, Henry.” He studies me with those piercing blue eyes of his. “Why do you want to get back out there?”

  “Because I didn’t get my fair share.”

  Jeff laughs. “And how do we determine what is fair?”

  “Oh, come on, Jeff. You know what I’m talking about. It sucks to be thirty-three. No longer the young and fresh and nubile boys of summer—but not yet ready to go gracefully offstage like you middle-agers.”

  He glowers comically. “Watch it, Henry.”

  “You know what I’m talking about, Jeff. You wrote about it in The Boys of Summer. It’s set when you were thirty-three.”

  “When the protagonist is thirty-three,” he corrects me.

  “Whatever. It just sucks trying to keep up, because it’s impossible to keep up when new young bodies are always waiting in the wings.”

  Jeff folds his arms across his chest. “So how do you try to keep up?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I try to be aware of new trends, new fashions.” I smile. “Like camouflage shorts. I realized the boys were wearing camouflage shorts instead of the cutoff denim shorts, so I switched.”

  Jeff shakes his head. “They’re on their way out. I hear corduroy is the next big thing.”

  “Really?”

  He gives me an exasperated face. “Who the hell knows! I was being sarcastic! The point is, Henry, you can’t keep up with trends. They’re impossible to keep track of.”

  I pout. “I don’t want to look like some dated old fossil. Remember that guy Kenneth we’d see on the dance floor? He was older even than you.”

  He gives me an eyebrow. “I told you to watch it, Henry.”

  I smirk. “The point is, Jeff,” I say, mimicking him, “we all thought Kenneth such a tragic figure. He’d be out there dancing in his love beads and freedom rings and spandex bike shorts and we thought, ‘Poor guy. He’s stuck in 1989.’” I lean in close to make my point. “I do not want to be Kenneth.”

  “I thought you liked Kenneth. Didn’t he hire Hank?”

  “Yes.” I sigh. “Kenneth was very sweet. But that doesn’t make him any less sad. Or any less a cautionary tale for the rest of us.”

  “Then what are you out there buying camouflage shorts for?”

  “Hey, at least I’m not still wearing spandex bike shorts. I’m trying to move with the times.”

  “I don’t think that’s always the best strategy, actually,” Jeff says. “So what ever happened to Kenneth?”

  “Who knows? He’s probably still wearing those spandex shorts dancing in some club in Worcester.”

  “And if it makes him happy, so what?”

  I look at Jeff with some frustration. “You are not taking me seriously.”

  “Because you can’t possibly be serious, Henry.” He scowls. “You’ve said it yourself. If you try to keep up with the kiddies, you’ll fail. Because you’re not a kid.”

  “But I don’t want to be an old fossil, either.”

  He sighs dramatically. “You’re thirty-three, Henry. You’ve got a few more years before fossildom hits. Trust me.”

  “You’ve managed pretty well,” I tell him. “Lots of guys your age have let themselves go, but you still get twinkies like Luke looking at you.”

  He grins. Flattery always puts Jeff in a more generous frame of mind. “Henry, tell me again why all this is so important to you. And don’t give me any song and dance about how you didn’t get your fair share.”

  I’m quiet, thinking.

  “Well?” Jeff asks. “Why are you so obsessed with trying to stay young?”

  I turn my face to look at him. “So I can meet Mr. Right,” I say definitively.

  Jeff smiles wryly. “And you think Mr. Right will only accept you without ear hair and love handles?”

  I shrug. “I think it’ll be easier to attract his attention, anyway.”

  “I think if he’s really Mr. Right, he’s going to be looking for other things.”

  “Oh, please, Jeff. I could take that coming from Lloyd. But you…” I look him deep in the eyes. “Do you really think you could give it all up, Jeff? The other men? The way you feel now…is it forever? Could you really concentrate only on Lloyd?”

  “Well, I already do. Lloyd has always been my primary focus.”

  “What I mean is, could you give up all the outside sex for good? Could you, really?”

  He squints his eyes at me. “Are you including three-ways that Lloyd and I do together?”

  “Yes. Could you accept a sex life that consisted of just you and Lloyd?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Probably not,” he admits.

  I smile. “At least you’re honest.”

  Jeff eyes me critically. “Could you accept an emotional life that was just you and Mr. Right, whoever he might be?”

  I don’t have an answer. And, as it turns out, I’m saved from having to provide one, because Luke has come outside, sauntering toward us, his eyes locked, of course, on Jeff.

  “I’ve finished the beds upstairs, Henry,” he announces, not looking at me. “Anything else for this morning?”

  “We’ve got a new guest,” I tell him. “He just checked into Room 5. He’ll need towels.”

  “He’s got ‘em.” Luke turns his eyes finally to me. “It’s Martin.”

  There’s a strange look on Luke’s face. “Yeah, I know,” I say, wondering why there’s a flicker of a smile now playing on the boy’s lips.

  “How’s the novel coming?” Jeff asks.

  That’s all Luke needs. He returns his gaze to Jeff, launching into a fevered description of his writing, how every day, as soon as he finishes his chores, he holes up in his basement room and lets the words flow. “I don’t stop,” he says. “I always keep in mind what you advised me. My pen rarely leaves the paper. I just write write write and worry about grammar and punctuation and all that stuff later.”

  Jeff grins. “Writing is a forward motion. Rewriting is a backward motion. And when you try to go forward and backward at the same time—”

  “You go nowhere,” Luke finishes.

  Clearly they’ve had some little heart-to-hearts on the nature of the writer’s craft. I wonder where these little chats have taken place, and how closely together the two of them have sat, and how difficult it’s been for Jeff to restrain himself from flipping Luke over and fucking him hard.

  Jeff stands now. “Well,” he says, “when slave-driver Henry gives you the green light, you get back to writing.” He stretches—just to show off his abs, I bet. “As fo
r me, I’ve got some more pruning to do around back. When are you going to show me a draft?”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Jeff has always steadfastly refused to read other people’s work, believing if he said yes to one he’d be obliged to say yes to everyone, and soon would be inundated with amateur manuscripts. I had warned Luke it would never happen, and here Jeff now is, making the offer right in front of me. Luke makes sure to swing his gaze past me before he responds to Jeff.

  “Really, Jeff?” he asks. “Do you really mean it? You’d read my work?”

  Jeff smiles benevolently. “Sure, buddy. Give me your ten best pages.”

  “Oh, man, thank you, Jeff! I will!”

  Jeff winks and disappears around the corner of the house.

  “He’s so generous,” Luke says, still looking after him.

  I grunt. “My warning still holds,” I tell him. “If you try scheming with Jeff, you’ll quickly find you’ve met your match.”

  Luke turns his eyes to me. “Henry, can’t we be friends again?”

  “To be honest, Luke, I’m not sure we ever were.”

  He approaches me. Still sitting on the bench, my face is level with his torso.

  “Henry,” Luke purrs, “I still think you’re way hot.”

  My tongue darts out and I begin lapping up the beads of sweat on his stomach before I realize it’s just a fantasy. I close my eyes so I can’t see his skin.

  “Really I do, Henry,” Luke says.

  “I told you,” I say, eyes still closed. “No sex with employees. It’s a house rule.”

  “But getting blown by guests is allowed?”

  I open my eyes fast. “What are you talking about?”

  Luke sits beside me on the bench. “Martin.”

  I stare at him. “What do you mean, Martin?”

  “I was there the night at the dick dock when he sucked your cock.”

  “Oh, fuck.” So it was Martin. And Luke had watched the whole thing.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t say anything to Lloyd.”

  “Lloyd already knows.” Goddamn it. The kid thinks he has something on me. I’ve got to dismiss that notion right away. “It’s no big deal. Who cares?”

  “I thought it was pretty hot to watch,” Luke says, surely loving my discomfort. “You and Martin make a very hot pair.”

  I think he’s being sarcastic, but I’m not sure. I can’t tell when the kid is being authentic, if ever. But surely Martin isn’t his type…

  “I like hot daddies,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Martin’s quite handsome. I love his salt-and-pepper beard. And he has amazing eyes.”

  “I don’t want you gossiping about guests,” I warn him.

  Luke places a hand over his heart. “Oh, never, Henry. Trust me.”

  “That’s just it,” I say, standing. “I don’t.” I start to walk away, then turn back. “Okay, you’re done for the morning. Run off and start your writing writing writing.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Luke says.

  I head back inside. All of this is just fucking great. Now I have to face Martin. And not only is he staying here again, but he’s moved to town! He’ll talk, and soon everyone will know that I was under the dock.

  Without even thinking about it, I pick up the phone and punch in Gale’s number, which I’ve memorized.

  “Hey, this is Gale,” says his voice-mail. “Leave me a—”

  I hang up. I’m glad he didn’t answer. At least I was smart enough to call from the guesthouse’s private number, so I wouldn’t leave a record on his caller ID.

  I think what’s made my mood all the worse this morning is the conversation I had with my mother last night. Usually I don’t think much about my parents. They’re off in Western Massachusetts living their lives. I visit when I can, which is never enough for them—especially my mother. My parents, my sisters, my nieces are all part of my old life, the life I lived before I was gay, or at least before I was open about it. My family exists in my mind in a sort of netherworld—before Jeff, before Lloyd, before the guesthouse, before Henry Weiner came into his own. Yet as much as I seem to have moved beyond my old life, it’s still there, always hovering in the background, and calls from my mother are usually the conduit by which all of my old memories and experiences and self-impressions come rushing back into my consciousness.

  As usual, Mom was going on and on about when I was coming home next. I explained that I couldn’t leave the guesthouse during high season, that she and my father would have to wait until after Labor Day for a visit. In response came those little noises from her throat that have always been intended to elicit guilt, little murmurs and clicks of her tongue which, when I was younger, had the power to completely overrule my reason. Whatever was on my agenda would be scuttled, and I’d be speeding down the Mass Pike toward West Springfield within the day.

  But no more. Mom’s come to realize that the hold she had over me for so many years isn’t so strong anymore. So she’s trying a new tack. “Henry,” she said, just as we were getting ready to hang up. “Are you happy?”

  What a question to ask your son. Oh, sure, it seems like a kind, caring, considerate question. A mother worrying about her little boy’s welfare. But she already knows the answer. She must. How could she not? And by asking it, she only makes me realize it all the more.

  No, Mom, I am not.

  Except I said, “Of course I am. I’m just busy, that’s all.”

  I close the door to my private office and sit down at my desk. Staring up at me is Joey’s face. A photograph of him posing on our deck wearing only a pink Speedo is taped to my in-box. It’s been there since our three-week anniversary. In all this time, even through all the heartache, it’s never come down.

  Maybe it’s time it did.

  I consider tearing the photograph up, but I don’t. I just slip it into my top drawer. But its removal from my sight is a step long overdue.

  I feel better for having done it, as I’ve just proven that I’m an adult.

  I think again about Gale. Should I call him back and leave a message this time? Lloyd’s words are in my head: If you want to see him again, call him.

  But wouldn’t he have called me if he were really interested? Why risk calling him and asking him out only to have him wiggle out, hem and haw, and finally tell me no? “I’ll call you,” he said.

  Biggest lie in the book.

  Once he’d gotten a good look at me, once he started to get to know the real Henry, he pulled back. Just like Joey did, and all the others. Just like Luke, when he saw he had a shot at Jeff.

  It’s me. What other conclusion can I draw? I just don’t measure up. I’m boring. I’m fat in some places, too skinny in others. I’m—

  A knock at my door causes me to jump.

  “Henry?” comes a voice.

  It’s Martin.

  I open the door. He stands there in a white tank top and khaki shorts. I notice that some of his chest hair is gray.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he says. “But is there any chance I can use one of the bikes out back? I haven’t yet had a chance to buy my own…”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Use any of them except the blue one. That’s mine.”

  “Thanks.” He grins. “Henry, about the other night—”

  “It’s cool. We didn’t know…Just forget it.”

  He nods. “Well, I was wondering…” His face flushes. “Well, what I’m trying to say is…”

  Again his words fade away. “What is it?” I ask.

  He steels himself, suddenly determined. “Henry, would you have dinner with me some night?”

  I’m stunned. I don’t know how to respond. Oh man, this guy—this older man, this bear—wants me to have dinner with him!

  His face seems frozen, his bright blue eyes waiting for my answer.

  “Oh, Martin,” I say, “thanks, but we have a policy…”

  I watch as the muscles in his face droop, his steel-blue eyes lose their luster. />
  “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to,” I lie, “but you’re a guest and—”

  “I see. It’s fine. Really. I was just—” He makes himself laugh. “But hey, thanks for the use of the bike.”