Where the Boys Are

by William J. Mann

  “Hey!” he’s yelling to a group of red-shirted fags ahead of us in line on the way to the Epcot monorail. “Where you guys from?”

  “Baltimore,” one of them, a tall blond muscle boy, calls back.

  “Boston here!” Anthony shouts. “Happy Gay Disney Days!”

  I smile, looking over at him. “Are you sure you didn’t do any X?” Anthony beams. “I’m totally straight, Jeff.”

  I smirk. “Now that’s a misnomer if I ever heard one.”

  “I love Disney World!” he shouts, throwing his arms into the air.

  He’s such a kid in some ways. True, I’ve never been able to resist the Disney magic myself, especially during my first visit here with Lloyd and Javitz some years ago. I still have the photos somewhere: Javitz making faces with Goofy, Lloyd posing with a hunky Alladin, all of us perched atop the slide at Typhoon Lagoon. It’s a trip I’ll never forget, and as much as I enjoy watching Anthony’s spirited reactions, there’s a little cloud of melancholia following me around, as I keep remembering how Lloyd and I kissed all the way through the Haunted Mansion and how Javitz lost his baseball cap in the wind tunnels of Space Mountain.

  But this is my first time being so overtly gay here at the Magic Kingdom, and I can’t deny the excitement at seeing so many red shirts throughout the park. It’s the agreed-upon code to identify all us queers, as if that’s even really necessary. We’re everywhere. Only the most tolerant or clueless straights have stayed in the park today; the whole complex is practically transformed into a private gay playground. All of the gay Peter Pans and Snow Whites who, for the rest of the year, have to smile and wave innocently at toddlers and their moms, can now indulge in winks and quips with the hordes of horny gay tourists, if you get them out of earshot of the Mouse.

  Earlier today I made eye contact with one such “cast member,” an attractive young Filipino boy who snuck Anthony and me into the underground catacombs for lunch in the Disney commissary. There, Belle from “Beauty and the Beast” smoked cigarettes with a headless Donald Duck, who cruised Anthony up and down. After lunch, we all made plans to meet for the big party that night at Mannequins on Pleasure Island. I carefully stashed away their names and numbers in my wallet.

  “I love this extended family you’re always telling me about, Jeff,” Anthony’s saying as we take our seats on the monorail. “It feels like a giant family reunion, with cousins you never even met!”

  From another car, a group of queens are singing “Someday My Prince Will Come.” I look over at Anthony and nod. “That’s a good analogy,” I tell him.

  He smiles broadly. “I could never have imagined such a thing a year ago. To have found all this—man! Jeff, you brought me in! I’d never have found my way if it hadn’t been for you.”

  I wink at him. “I think you would have done fine, Anthony.”

  He shakes his head adamantly as the monorail begins to move. “No, Jeff. I mean it. I owe all of this to you. And I don’t just mean you paying for my plane ticket here. I mean all of it. My whole life. My whole gay life.”

  I give him a small smile and turn to look down at the passing scenery. Behind us, Cinderella’s Castle fades into the distance. We pass over the flat manmade greennness of Central Florida. It’s hot, very hot, and I’m glad I opted against the red-shirt uniform. My loose white cotton prevents those icky perspiration stains most of the other boys are doing their best to hide, including Anthony. Besides, I’ve put on a pound or two—in the wrong places—and the shirt does a good job covering it up.

  I don’t doubt that Anthony is sincere in his gratitude. A year ago, I suppose, he was still a scared young man, unwilling to admit to his gayness, still traumatized by the murder that had taken place over a decade before. The killers of Robert Riley had claimed more than one victim that night. The fireplace log they’d used to beat Riley to death had proven almost as fatal to Anthony, even if it never touched him. Those two fuckers sent Anthony into a decade-long exile, causing him to miss out on what should have been the best years of his youth.

  If only I could figure some way to get him to talk about it all, without having to admit I’d gone behind his back. I look over at Anthony now, chatting up a couple of gay boys with Southern accents, exchanging stories of Alien Encounter and Star Tours and the Tower of Terror.

  “This is my first time to Epcot,” Anthony’s telling them. “Jeff’s been there before, so he’s going to show me around.”

  I enjoy playing tour guide. I know that the best way to see Epcot is to work from the back to the front, so I take Anthony by the hand and lead him quickly under Spaceship Earth across the bridge to the World Pavilion. This way we’ll be going against the usual flow of the crowd, and can enjoy the different countries at our leisure.

  Ahead of us I spot a couple of folks looking up toward the sky. There’s a small plane trailing a banner through the bright blueness. I strain to read it against the sun. REPENT, it says. GIVE UP YOUR LIVES OF SIN AND COME TO JESUS.

  “No matter where you go,” I grumble, “there’s always somebody.”

  Anthony just stares up at the banner.

  “Don’t look at them,” I say, taking his hand again as some in the crowd shake their fists up at the plane. “Don’t give them even that. We have countries to explore.”

  I’ve been to the real England and the real France and the real Mexico, but Anthony has never been outside the United States (with the exception of our trip to Montreal), so he takes particular, delight in seeing each national pavilion. In Norway we ride Maelstrom, then take a break to eat a couple of cream pies.

  “You having fun, Jeff?” Anthony asks me.

  “Sure.”

  “You seem kind of distant.”

  I shrug. “I don’t mean to be. How am I distant?”

  Anthony has cream filling on his upper lip but doesn’t seem to realize it. “You just kind of are. Maybe it’s just that you’ve been here before and aren’t as excited as I am.”

  “Maybe.”

  He looks at me warily. “And maybe you’re missing Lloyd.”

  I sigh. “Anthony, wipe your lip.”

  He obeys. “Do you, Jeff? Do you wish you were here with Lloyd instead of me?”

  “Anthony, why do you always ask such things?”

  “You know why.” A little of the boyish enthusiasm seems to dim in his eyes. “Because I like you and want you to like me.”

  “I do like you,” I insist. “You know that.”

  He smiles. “I like that you’ve started letting me sleep with you.”

  Now, that’s a surprise to me as well. It happened quite unexpectedly. We were sitting on my bed, watching MTV, as we often did, and Anthony fell asleep. But this time I didn’t wake him. I just pulled the covers up and slipped in beside him. The next night it happened again, Anthony falling asleep as we watched TV. Did he finagle it that way? Could he be as crafty as all that? I don’t care, because in truth, I enjoy having him there. It’s the first time I’ve ever enjoyed sleeping with anyone other than Lloyd.

  “Anthony,” I say, leaning across the table a little, suddenly inspired by all this happiness around us, “don’t you think maybe it’s time to tell me a little more? About yourself?”

  He pulls back a little, taking another bite of his cream pie.

  I press on. “You promised that someday you would. You’d explain where you go when you disappear. You’d tell me more about your family … and your friends, Anthony.” I mean Riley. I want him to talk about Riley.

  Anthony says nothing. He finishes the last of his cream pie, licking the filling from his fingers.

  “No?” I ask. “There’s nothing you can tell me?”

  He looks at me pleadingly. “Why here, Jeff? We’re at Disney World.”

  “Why not here? It’s the Happiest Place on Earth, remember?”

  Anthony says nothing.

  I sigh. “Anthony, did you ever have a special friend? Someone who really mattered to you? Somebody you maybe looked up to? Mayb
e … mentored you?”

  “Why are you asking me this?” he asks suspiciously.

  “I’m just wondering, Anthony. I’m just wondering if maybe there’s ever been anyone else, any other man, who you came to care about.”

  Anthony shakes his head firmly. “Jeff, there’s been no one. You’re the first man I’ve ever been in love with.” He tries to smile. “Believe me.”

  “Okay, okay. That may be true.” I scratch my head. “But maybe there was someone who meant a lot to you, maybe when you were younger …”

  “No!” Anthony stands up suddenly. “Why are you going on like this?”

  His reaction seems to rattle me, make me angry. “Because I want some answers, Anthony! You’re living with me. You’re sleeping in my bed. And still you disappear overnight once a week and still I don’t know anything about you. I deserve answers! And if you don’t tell me, then—well—I may just have to find them out on my own!”

  Anthony just stares at me. He still has some cream filling on his face. His lips draw tight and his brow creases.

  “Anthony?” I ask.

  Suddenly he turns and shoots off across the pavilion. He runs as fast as he can into the passing crowd. He darts around a lesbian couple pushing a baby stroller and then disappears. I call after him, running a few feet, but quickly realize it’s ludicrous to pursue him. He’s gotten too much of a head start and the crowd is too large.

  I sigh, shaking my head in disbelief. All I can do is go back to the room and hope he shows up there. I didn’t mean to push him over the edge like that, but you know what? Instead of guilt, I feel anger. What the fuck is he hiding? Why can’t he just tell me about his past? He claims to love me, but he sure doesn’t seem to trust me.

  Back at the room, I flop down on the bed and start missing Lloyd like crazy. I begin thinking again about my last trip here, with Lloyd and Javitz, and how much fun we had. What am I doing here with some mystery kid who goes running off like a scared antelope?

  And why hasn’t Lloyd responded to my E-mails? Is he really that busy running the guest house? I fall asleep hating my life.

  I awake at ten minutes to eleven. The room is dark. I flick on the light and realize Anthony hasn’t come back. I grow a little worried, then tell myself to stop. Anthony’s a big boy; surely he just stayed in the park and fell into another group of gay boys. In fact, he’ll most certainly be at Pleasure Island, where we all planned to rendezvous. I hurriedly shower and change my clothes.

  But he’s not at Mannequins, either. I stand on the revolving dance floor so I can scope out the entire crowd, and I don’t spot him. None of the guys we’d met have seen him either.

  Then screw him, I think. If he thinks he can just run off on me and—

  “Hello, Jeff.”

  I turn. It’s the last person I expect to see. Or want to.

  “Drake,” I say, without much emotion.

  “Having a good time?” he asks, with that little edge to his voice, as ever.

  I look past him. “I’m just … waiting for someone.”

  He feigns incredulity. “The famous Jeff O’Brien hasn’t been stood up, has he?”

  I sneer. “If thinking that makes you feel good, then go for it, Drake.”

  I’ve never cared very much for this guy. It’s not just that Lloyd dated him briefly when we first moved apart. It’s the fact that he’s an affluent, arrogant upper-middle-class snob, and what he’s doing at Disney World, I can’t imagine. I know he still carries a torch for Lloyd; that much was obvious that day at the guest house opening party.

  Yet I have to admit that Drake looks awfully hot standing there, his silver hair offsetting his tanned face, his black tank top revealing surprisingly muscular shoulders and arms. A few years ago I’d never have looked twice at a guy his age. But I’ve become far more eclectic in my tastes. I can understand what Lloyd saw in Drake, at least physically. Suddenly the image of this man and Lloyd in bed together makes me horny, although I find myself embarrassed to admit it, even to myself.

  “Jeff,” Drake is saying, “I was joking. I certainly didn’t mean to offend.”

  “None taken,” I say.

  “Good.” He smiles. “The friends I came with are a little too drunk for my taste. You, however, seem pretty sober, Jeff.”

  I nod. “I’m not much in a partying mood tonight.”

  “Who’d you come with? That good-looking blond boy I met at the party?”

  I sigh. “Yeah. Guess he’s not going to show.”

  “Funny, isn’t it?” Drake muses. “You and me, running into each other, alone.”

  “Yeah. Especially when you could be in Provincetown, staying at Lloyd’s.”

  He snorts. “I tried that. Memorial Day weekend. Lloyd’s a busy boy. I saw him at check-in and check-out. That was it.”

  I laugh bitterly. “That’s more than I’ve seen of him.”

  We stand there silently for a few minutes, watching the dance floor revolve.

  “I never noticed how pretty your eyes are, Jeff,” Drake finally says.

  I give him a quizzical little smile. “I never noticed you were a flirt.”

  He laughs. “I’ve always thought you were attractive, Jeff.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “And what have you thought about me?”

  I look squarely at him. “Drake, what I have thought about you is not far from what you have thought about me. We have never liked each other. We have been civil only because of Lloyd.”

  His eyes dance. “I suppose you’re right.”

  He leans in and kisses me. Without even thinking about it, I kiss him back. No X, no drugs, just an unexpected passion. It turns into quite the kiss, with lots of tongue and hands on butts, and when it finally ends, Drake puts his arm around me and begins leading me out of the club. Part of me is hesitant—after all, my body isn’t feeling exactly perfect—but then I remember my promise to Henry to give that up, and so I continue walking.

  I stop just as we walk out into the humid, starry night. “Just so that we’re being honest with each other,” I say looking over at Drake, “I’m fully aware that the only reason you want to sleep with me is because of Lloyd.”

  Drake smiles. “Just as I’m fully aware that the only reason you’re sleeping with me is also because of Lloyd.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Fine, then,” I say as we start walking again. “Just so we’re being honest.”

  The sex, I can’t deny, is awesome.

  Fourth of July Weekend, Nirvana

  Lloyd

  The phone rings early, but I am, of course, already up, scrambling eggs and squeezing fresh orange juice. And I know before I answer it that it’ll be Jeff. I just know. Remember? I told you this right at the start, and it’s still true. That’s just the way it is between us. Even if it’s been months since we talked last.

  “Hey,” Jeff says.

  “Hey,” I say in return.

  There’s a momentary silence between us. I look up to notice Eva at the toaster, running through several slices of bread for the guests. She seems to pause, listening. Somehow I sense that she knows I’m talking to Jeff. I take the phone out onto the back porch.

  “Cat,” I say. “How are you?”

  “I’m in town,” he tells me. “It was a last-minute decision. I’m staying in North Truro, actually. Figured you guys would be all booked up this weekend.”

  We are. It’s our craziest weekend thus far, the traditional kickoff to Provincetown’s two-month high season. I knew this was going to be a killer. Eva had been up even earlier than I was, getting the four pots of flavored coffees perking, and arranging into vases our daily delivery of fresh flowers. Sunflowers and peonies today. The past couple of weeks have been rainy and chilly, dampening everyone’s spirits, but the weather report promised different for this weekend, and so far the day is cooperating. Already, at nine A.M. all our windows are open, and fresh, salty sea air fills the house.

  “I was hoping, maybe …” Jeff’s voice trails off.
“I was hoping maybe we could see each other.”

  I hear the screen door slam shut. I turn. Eva has come outside and is looking at me, raising her eyebrows and gesturing, as if she wants to ask me something.

  “Maybe we can meet somewhere,” Jeff’s saying.

  I know just the place. “The breakwater,” I suggest.

  I can tell Jeff’s smiling on the other end of the phone. How many countless hours did we spend on the breakwater, ruminating about life and love with Javitz? It’s also the place where, nearly four years ago, we sprinkled Javitz’s ashes, watching them swirl into the outgoing tide and finally disappear, merging into the sea.

  “Perfect,” Jeff says. “What do you say, maybe four o’clock?”

  “Four it is.”

  His voice sounds buoyant. “Okay. Great! See you then, Lloyd.”

  “Bye, Jeff.”

  Could he really be as happy as I am about reconnecting? If so, then why has he ignored all my E-mails? Why has he never called?

  I click off the phone and turn around. Eva is practically in my face. “We have a house full of guests,” she says immediately.

  “And your point is?”

  She assumes a defiant posture, standing up straight and lifting her bosom. “I won’t be left alone to handle them all by myself.”

  “We have three employees, Eva,” I say impatiently. “And I’ll be gone a couple hours at the most, in the late afternoon, when no one’s around.”

  She looks as if she might suddenly cry. “Lloyd, it’s just that—well, Jeff. I know your long history with him, and I’d hate to see you—well, you know, get hurt again.”

  I imagine for the past few months she’s allowed herself to think that Jeff was finally gone for good. And why not? I’d even come to think it. But never entirely. Deep down, I always believed we’d reconnect somehow.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to see him,” she says. “We’re so busy, and you might get upset.…”

  I refuse to get into anything with her. I just walk past her into the house.

  Eva follows.