by Curtis Bunn
“Why the back?” Henry asked.
“I don’t know,” Elliot said. “Never mind. I’m good wherever.”
They were seated in a booth in the center of the restaurant, to Elliott’s chagrin.
“What’s up with you?” Henry asked.
“I have to be honest,” Elliott said. “I almost panicked in the mall. I felt like people were looking at us as a couple.”
“What?” Henry was appalled. “How did you get that?”
“I know what this mall is like on Saturdays,” he said. “And I saw some gay men just now. It made me feel like people thought we were gay, too.”
“You are trippin’,” Henry said. “Do I look gay? Do you look gay? What does that even look like? Were we hugged up? So why would anyone think we’re gay?”
“But you are gay,” Elliott said.
“You only know that because I told you. I’m sure you know every gay man does not have feminine traits. Right?”
“Man, this is hard,” Elliott said. “You know how I feel about you. But…”
“But what, Elliott?” Henry asked. “I’m not asking you for sex. I’m asking you to be my friend as we have been for about fifteen years.”
“And I’m that; I want to be that,” Elliott said. “But it’s awkward. It is. I can’t lie to you. You’re the same person you have always been. And maybe we should talk about it now because after your son…passed, we never talked about it. We tried to carry on.”
“What’s there to talk about?” Henry asked.
The server came and they ordered sushi. Elliott ordered a French Connection: Courvoisier and Grand Marnier. The woman hung around, clearing place settings that would not be used, and Elliott waited for her to finish and leave before he continued.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “Waiters eavesdrop. Last thing I want is for her to hear our conversation and tell people we’re a gay couple.”
“You have a problem with gays or a problem with your sexuality,” Henry said.
“No, I don’t. Or maybe I do have a problem with gays,” he said. “I admit it. No, wait. Here’s what I have a problem with—and I can say this to you because you’re my boy and you want me to be honest, right?”
Henry looked at him.
“What I don’t like about most or some gay men is that they fake like they’re real men, dating women, fucking women, even marrying like you did and having kids…when they really want dick,” he said. “I’m not trying to be crass or insensitive, but that’s how I feel—and a whole lot of other people, too.”
“Man, you’re a piece of work,” Henry said. “You go around at sixty-one fucking twenty-year-olds and you want to judge somebody?”
“Hold up, don’t get on me and avoid my point,” Elliott said. “I love you like a brother. But I don’t have any respect for you messing with women and even having a child and you really are gay. What the hell is that about?”
Henry fumed. But he believed his friend deserved an answer, if only because Elliott was there to help him cope after his son’s death.
“Listen, it’s hard to explain,” Henry said. “I’m not looking for sympathy when I say this. And it’s no excuse, either. The reality is that I grew up in a family of men. Three brothers. All my first cousins were boys. We played sports and when we got older, chased girls and were basically regular boys. But I always had a different feeling about boys. It wasn’t an attraction, at first. It was weird because I wasn’t sure what was going on.
“Society, the way it is, told me to date girls; that’s what boys or men do. So I did. Around high school, I started identifying the feelings I was having. I knew what was going on with me. It came to me, like the light bulb comes on. There was a guy named Art Procter. I liked him. He wasn’t the best looking guy or the most muscular guy. But in the tenth grade, I felt attracted to him.”
Elliott leaned back with a frown on his face.
“Don’t get squeamish now. You asked. Anyway, it was like Art could read my mind. He knew I was attracted to him and he was attracted to me. One day, he told me as we were leaving the cafeteria: ‘You like me, don’t you?’ And I punched him in the face. I was sent to the principal’s office because a hall monitor saw it.
“The principal asked me why I hit him and I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t say. And he wouldn’t tell what he said to me. I ended up apologizing to him and had some kind of punishment that I can’t remember right now.
“But that was the beginning. But who could I tell? All of my friends were homophobic. They all used slurs and laughed at the guys who they thought were gay. I joined in with them because I was scared that they would think I was gay. Even though I didn’t look it, I felt it, and I walked around feeling like people could see it on or in me, if you know what I mean. To be gay in my family was akin to signing up for a firing squad. My dad was an outright gay basher. We can start right there. And what do you think my brothers were and his brothers and my cousins? My dad passed down to us to be the manliest of men.
“To uphold that expectation, I did all the things straight men do. I had girlfriends. I played sports. I ridiculed gay people. I did every single thing I could to throw off anyone to ever think I could not be straight. I overcompensated. And Elliott, it was the worst thing in the world, the worst feeling. I was trapped inside my own body. You actually might be able to relate to it in this context: When you were in prison for, what, twelve years for a crime you didn’t commit, you told me you had to adopt to the situation and act as a hardened criminal so hardened, crazy criminals would not bother you.
“So, you stabbed a guy and you talked shit and you postured for survival. It was like that for me, sort of.”
“Wait, that’s bullshit,” Elliott said. “I was in prison for something I didn’t do. I did what I had to do to stay alive and, ironically enough, prevent being fucked by a man. That’s different from fooling women into thinking you’re straight and, in one case, having a baby. See, that’s the problem right there. Forget everything else. Forget that people believe it’s unnatural and an act against God and whatever.
“To risk the health of a woman and to play with her feelings like that… Yeah, I have had sex with girls much younger than me. But it was straight up. No lies. No deceit. That’s where you’ll lose any discussion on this. This down-low shit is crazy and wrong. And we probably shouldn’t have even started talking about this because it’s pissing me off and making me feel differently about you.”
“You want to talk about bullshit? That’s bullshit,” Henry said. “You are fishing for an excuse to run. It’s cool. I’m really not surprised. You’re totally insecure about who you are so you fuck around with young girls and you worry you’ll be perceived as being gay by being seen with someone gay…even when nobody sees me as gay. How weak is that?
“Elliott, if you’re my friend, then you’re my friend. My sexuality should not matter. All the things we have done together over the years. The golf trips. The parties. The talks while you were going through your divorce. So much shit. And you’re basically telling me that was all bullshit because I don’t like women?”
“I’m telling you it was bullshit for you to not tell me you like men,” Elliott said. “Look, I know it would have been hard to do, and—”
“And I would have gotten what I got from you when I did tell you: name-calling and disappointment.”
“That was reactionary,” Elliott said. “You gotta give me a pass on that. Not many men have experienced hearing that from their boy. It’s a shock to the system, and, really, a slap in the face. Think about it, Henry: I fucking introduced you to women I knew. Friends. And unless you lied, you slept with at least two of them.”
“I lied,” Henry said. “Give me some credit. I could not, in good conscience, do that to people you knew.”
“Thank God,” Elliott said.
“They wanted me to sleep with them, but I kept coming up with excuses,” Henry said.
“Like what?” Elliott wanted to know.
“And once I got through that situation, I faded away from her. It was the same trick with all of them; I had to do something to keep them away.”
“That’s pathetic,” Elliott said. “Sad. And you didn’t do that all the time because you got someone pregnant. Did your son know you were gay?”
“I was going to tell him,” Henry said. “I was going to tell him to be proud of who he is and to stand tall, whatever his sexuality. We never had that conversation.”
Elliott sipped his drink.
“Well, I don’t know what to think of this conversation, Henry,” Elliott said. “I will always be sorry about your son. No parent should ever have to bury his child. I would be devastated. I know inside you’re still crushed.”
“I will never be the same,” Henry said.
“Does his mother know about your sexuality? Did you tell her?” Elliott asked.
“I told her right after I told you,” Henry said. “She didn’t take it so well. She doesn’t talk to me to this day. Other than around the time of the funeral, I did not exist to her. She’s worried about HIV, but I have been tested time and again. I’m good.”
“Look, Henry, I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” Elliott said. “I’m just saying that—and I’m sure you probably heard this—the perception of Atlanta as the ‘San Francisco of the South’ because of guys like you who hide your sexuality and bring other people—women—into the mix. That’s just plain wrong.
“Yes, she’s worried about HIV. But it’s the deceit that hurts her the most. I’m sure of that.”
“I apologized to her and that’s all I can do,” Henry said. “I didn’t know what to do. I loved her. But we got to the point of sex because I had to continue the charade.”
“Here’s my public service announcement that you can turn into your own,” Elliott said. “Now that you’re sort of officially in the gay community, why don’t you all call for transparency? Stop with the playing straight roles and getting women involved, getting married. That’s sick.
“My friend, Nia, told me six weeks ago about meeting a guy who was not, you know, so-called ‘gay-looking.’ She’s beautiful and he was a professional, a doctor or stockbroker or something. He invited her out a few times, but he didn’t make a move. Some guy at the restaurant where they met told Nia that the man was gay. She was shocked because she said he didn’t look gay.
“Anyway, she asks the guy and he says ‘Yes.’ And then he proceeds to tell her his boyfriend is a big-time lawyer who is married.”
Henry jumped in. “I know where you’re going with this.”
“Let me finish,” Elliott added. “So, the guy tells her he’s interested in becoming her friend because he needs her to attend events with him and pose as his date around the city to prevent people from thinking he’s gay. She would be his ‘beard’ and he’d pay her to play this role. If I didn’t know her, I would have thought she was lying. That’s some crazy shit.
“So that’s the kind of thing you can be a leader in changing. If you’re gay, be gay. Be proud of it. Nobody cares. Just don’t fuck around with women to try to fool people into thinking you’re not gay. That’s all I’m saying.”
“You make sense, but you’re also being idealistic,” Henry said. “You think men have been in the closet because we wanted to be there? Because it’s fun? No. It’s torture. It’s sad. We live in a country where your sexuality means so much to others that you are not comfortable being who you truly are. You’d rather live in pain and deceit because you know the truth would lead to more pain and hurt to others. No one wants to sign up for that.”
“Well, what happened with you?” Elliott asked. “You told me. What, your conscience got to you?”
“No, my friendship got to me,” he answered. “I owed it to you as my friend. And I haven’t told everyone. I believed you would not be judgmental. I didn’t think you’d high-five me, but I thought you’d eventually appreciate that I was honest with you and even understand and empathize with why I was not up front from the beginning.
“There are a lot of men out here living in pain and fear, Elliott. Some will never come out. They’ll live a married life as a father and love their family to their core. But their sexuality, which is a powerful thing, will drive them to men. It’s not really a secret society anymore.
“You know what? I have a public service announcement job for you, Elliott. Why don’t you announce that you have a good friend who is gay and you’re heterosexual and still his friend? That could make other men feel strong enough to embrace their friend coming out because, trust me on this, almost every man out there has a friend or two who is secretly gay. You can believe that, Elliott.”
That was enough for Elliott to suspend the debate. The sushi came and they enjoyed their food mostly in silence. Finally, Elliott said, “One more question, if I can. How differently do you feel about yourself having told someone?”
“E,” Henry started, “when I say this I am not overdramatizing it, okay? I have never been more at peace in my life. I do my job better. I smile brighter. I feel solid. I miss my son; the anguish of knowing he’s gone leaves a hole in my heart that simply cannot be filled. You know, I learned a lot about him at the funeral and since then. His peers have told me how he tutored them or encouraged them when down. A gay young man told me that my son was his only nongay friend, that he didn’t care about his sexuality or what people would think of him. My son was strong in his convictions and his life hadn’t even really started yet.
“Knowing how he was with people and being honest with myself and you and other people close to me has opened up my world. I lived in fear, Elliott. I was desperate to keep it a secret. I guarded it with everything I had. I know you have been going to therapy, well, I was, too. Talking to someone helped, definitely.
“But getting it off my chest to the people I care about, it was golden. Now, the flip side is the backlash. My brothers and cousins…they are not happy. They looked at me at the family reunion this summer and shook their heads and walked away. One of my country-ass cousins from Louisiana came up to me and said, ‘You don’t look gay.’
“I said, ‘You don’t look straight.’ And his whole weekend was messed up.”
The two friends shared a good laugh.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Beep. . . Beep. . . Beep. . .
By the time the evening rolled around, Elliott’s conversation with Henry dissolved from his mind. That happened because he was at the opulent restaurant STK, attending an event called Magnum Mondays, and there was an overflow of distracting eye candy.
He rolled in around 8:30 and was astonished to see that the place was packed with beautiful, young people. It had the feel of Las Vegas, with showgirls and high fashion, oversized bottles of champagne served with sparkles sprouting, a deejay and elevated energy.
The week before, Elliott went to The Green Room, a coffee shop/ bookstore in Buckhead, to read and overheard two young ladies at the counter buying the caramel cake and talking about how much fun they had there the previous week.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the young women, “I heard you talking about this event. Did you say at STK?”
They looked at him and wondered why it mattered; it was too young a crowd for him. But they answered anyway. “Yes, sir. STK in Midtown, by the Loews hotel,” one of them said. “You know where that is?”
“Oh, yeah, I do,” Elliott said. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you there next week.”
The girls glanced up and down at him, smiled an awkward smile. One said, “Okay then.” Then she giggled.
So it was kismet that he
ran into those two young ladies as soon as he entered the building. “Well, hello there,” he said to them. It took them a second to place him. “We met briefly at the Green Room. You told me about this place.”
“Oh, yeah,” one said. She wore a puzzled expression that said, What are you doing here?
“Nice to see you,” she said, and they walked off, snickering.
Elliott was used to the surprised looks and was unfazed by them. He was in his element.
This is happening on a Monday night? Wow, he said to himself. He made his way to the bar, which was long and up against an off-white-painted brick wall that was dramatically backlit with sweeping art of the same color hovering over it. It was three-deep to get to the actual bar, which did not bother Elliott because he had had that French Connection earlier with Henry. Besides, he was not there to drink.
In truth, he was not there to meet anyone, either. He loved the freedom that came with being out, the noise of conversation and music. It took him away from his existence. Sometimes he liked to be in the mix, feel the energy of the city. If a woman caught his eye, that would be a bonus. Because other women had fallen off as Tamara became somewhat of a fixture, he had room to add another prospect.
He noticed some people he had seen out over the last year or so, men and women. But no one there approached his age.
“I met you before,” he said to a young woman who was sitting on a lounge chair with three friends.
“Don’t all you men say that?” she responded from her seat, looking up at him.
“You don’t remember? Now I’m offended,” he said. “We were at Frank Ski’s on a Wednesday night. Half off bottles of wine. Frank treated me to some good stuff, and you were there with a girlfriend. I told the bartender to get you a glass and I shared my bottle with you. You don’t remember that?”
She perked up. “I remember,” she said, rising from her seat. “You have a car dealership or something with cars, right?”
“Elliott,” he said, extending his hand.
“Yvette,” she said. “This is my friend, Brian.”
