by Rick R. Reed
He smiles and raises his glass as I slip in through the door they’ve left open a crack for me. “Welcome! Did you have any sixty-second romances on the way over?”
Sixty-second romances are what I call those moments on the L train when you meet the gaze of another man and hold it for just a little longer than a casual glance. Both of you understand, in those few seconds, that something electric is passing between you. And then you move on, thus the sixty-second romance. Now that I’m aware of them, I have them all the time, at all hours of the day and night. But I’ve never been bold enough to do anything more than look. And even when that gets too intense, I find myself staring down at the floor, heat rising to my cheeks.
“Unfortunately, no. All I saw was a crazy lady with what looked like all her belongings stuffed into a couple of Aldi bags. She was rambling on and on about ‘you and your damn Swedish Bakery cookies.’”
“Funny?”
“Not at all,” I tell Stephen, moving across the living room to sit down beside him. “She was sad. I think she saw so many people in that car that I couldn’t. Riding the L is always entertaining, I have to say.”
“And scary.” He downs his scotch and asks me if I’ll have the usual. “Hon!” he calls, “Would you mind fixing me one more and whipping up a G & T for Randy here?”
I’d heard the soft murmur of voices coming from the kitchen when I entered, and they abruptly stopped when Stephen called out. I could also smell something burning, but I’ve let go any hopes of having decent food when I come over here.
It’s all about the atmosphere.
Rory pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Hey Randy! Come on out here and make them yourself, okay? I can’t leave the stove.”
I smile, glad to be included in things—it’s so much easier than sitting around and making small talk.
In their little, white galley kitchen, Rory is pulling down a clean glass for me from the cupboard. There’s already a bottle of Tanqueray and one of Glenfiddich on the counter.
And there’s a man standing at the stove, back to me, his arm motions indicating he’s stirring something. His shoulders are broad, testing the seams of his red T-shirt. His biceps look like hams. Thick black curls crown a solid head, bent over a steaming pan. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice his taut ass and broad thighs, both shown off nicely in worn, faded denim. He’s barefoot and this simple exposure of skin tantalizes me more than I think it should. I have to tear my eyes away from his feet on the pale hardwood.
Rory taps him on the shoulder. “Turn around and meet our other guest.”
Rory takes his place at the stove, while the guy dries off his hands on a dishtowel hanging from the refrigerator handle.
He turns and smiles. I know him from somewhere, but no bells have sounded just yet.
Yet he recognizes me, judging from the way his dark-brown eyes light up when he sees me, from the broadness of his grin. “Hey!” he says, beaming. He comes toward me, hand extended. “It’s you again.”
His hand is big, raw, calloused, and his grip so hard it almost makes me go weak in the knees. Our eyes lock as we shake hands, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing as I am— Why are we shaking hands when a kiss would be so much better? Surely, he’s not thinking that, right? But I’m a half-full kind of guy.
“I keep running into you,” he says. “First at Sidetrack last winter, and then you had the bad luck to come across me a couple months ago, fighting with one of my beaus. Lord! But it’s good to see you.” His voice and the unbridled joy in his face bring out a smile in me too.
And, without effort, everything clicks into place. I remember. Even that very terrified night at Sidetrack when I stepped into my first gay bar.
It’s flattering and kind of mind-boggling that he remembers seeing me so well.
Yet for the life of me, I can’t say what his name is. I hope if I remind him of mine, he’ll tell me his. “I’m Randy. Randy Kay.”
“Like Special K?”
“Very.” I wait for him to supply his name. I stop holding my breath. I pour drinks, making myself a gin and tonic, a scotch, neat, for Stephen, and beers (Rolling Rock) for the two men in the kitchen with me.
As I hand him his beer, he finally ends the suspense. “I’m John Walsh.” Our fingers meet over the sweating green glass of the beer bottle, which causes our eyes to lock again. The gaze is more, I swear, intimate than a kiss.
Rory is watching. “Looks like you boys will get along. And you have a history too. How nice!” He takes Stephen’s scotch from the counter and grabs his own beer. In the doorway from the kitchen, he pauses. “Would it be terribly rude of me to ask you two to finish up the dinner prep?” He puts a hand to his forehead. “I’m tired.”
I laugh. “Sure, Rory. We’ll see how we can improve on it.”
“Hey!”
“Go on. Get out of here.” I want to add, but I’m not so presumptuous that I know he’s pushing John and I together, protests that this is not a fix up aside.
John returns to the pan on the stove, moving dark and darker bits of meat and vegetable around with a spatula.
I move close to peer over his shoulder. “What is that?”
John turns to me, his face close, and grimaces. “Rory said hash. Some kind of hash. Roast beast?” He sets down the spatula to point to a couple of blackened cubes. “That’s supposed to be some of the beef, left over from Sunday’s dinner.”
“And those? Potatoes? Onions? Carrots?”
“You’d think. But it’s hard to say for sure.” He turns off the gas. “More heat is not going to improve this.” He sets down his spatula and leans against the sink, taking a swig of his beer. “How do you know the guys?”
I tell him about our encounter at North End a while back and explain how they’ve sort of taken me under their wing.
“Sort of like gay godfathers?”
I laugh. “You could say that.” Suddenly, there’s a rushing in my head. My heart feels as if it’s fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. There’s something about the way John stands, casually holding his beer, that looks, well, beautiful to me. I don’t know how he’d like having the word “beauty” ascribed to him, but it fits better than the more manly compliments like handsome or hunky. John has his legs crossed and it forces up and out that faded denim bulge very, um, fetchingly. He catches me looking once and grins.
Of course, my face feels like it’s on fire.
“How did you meet Stephen and Rory?”
“Ah, they were a little friendlier than you were at Sidetrack.” He laughs. “I’m just giving you shit. You probably don’t even remember, but I tried to buy you a beer. You rushed out of the bar like I offered you a turd.”
If any more heat rises to my cheeks, I’m afraid my face will explode. “Gee, I’m sorry.”
John laughs and claps a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. The touch is electric, stirring me in ways I would have before thought impossible from such a simple gesture. I find myself a little breathless and at a loss for words.
“You don’t have to apologize. You looked scared. And that made me feel sorry for you. I just wanted to be a friend because it looked like you needed one.”
“That’s so kind of you.” The lust I felt a moment ago switches to gratitude and a different kind of appreciation for this guy.
He waves my comment away. “It was nothing. I’m not Mother Teresa either. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to ulterior motives.” He grins and gives me a little wink, which sends a shiver down my spine.
“I wish I would have taken that drink. I wish we would have talked.” And I do. But I wasn’t ready. Not that night. Not even close.
Tonight, maybe I’m ready. I regard John’s dark chocolate eyes and think I see in them a depth that goes beyond mere lust—either within me or within him.
“Well, why didn’t you?”
I realize John knows nothing about me or my history. I’m about to launch into the whole long story of my up
bringing, Catholicism, small-town values, early marriage, early fatherhood, and more, when Stephen saves me from embarrassment by rolling into the kitchen.
Nearly smashing my toes in the process, he crosses the small space to peer into the nonstick skillet on the stove. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “Hey Rory! Honey?”
Rory pokes his head in the kitchen. “Yes, dear?”
Stephen smiles and points to the hash. “You know what? This looks great, but I’m really having a taste for pizza tonight. Would you mind if we ordered in from Giordano’s?” He makes a good effort at looking somewhat helpless and wanting to please. He eyes us. “You guys wouldn’t mind pizza, would you?”
John speaks up. “I don’t know. That hash is making my mouth water.”
And I’m recalling how my mouth often waters just before I throw up. I stay quiet.
“Well, if you really want pizza, Stephen, we can have pizza. I’ll go call in the order. In the meantime, why don’t you refresh these boys’ drinks? They look like they could use some cooling down.”
It’s only after Rory leaves the kitchen I notice how close John and I are standing.
Stephen eyes us as he gets more alcohol. “Really guys. We seldom meet anyone out at the bars that we want to invite over for dinner, but you two charmed us both. The fact that we’ve invited you on the same night doesn’t mean anything. No pressure.” Stephen looks at me, then at John. “I know you both have your issues.”
John shrugs. “Who, me? I got no issues. I got no baggage.”
“That’s good to hear,” I tell him. Already, I wonder if my having a wife and kid at home will send him screaming off into the night. I wouldn’t blame him if it did.
“I call bullshit.” Stephen hands a fresh bottle of Rolling Rock to John. “You have issues just like this one over here.” And he turns to hand me a fresh gin and tonic.
I exchange a questioning glance with John that Stephen notices. “But I will leave you two to your own devices to discover what issues you have. Also what benefits you bring to the table.” He grins and exits the kitchen.
We bump glass and bottle. “Is this our first date?” I ask and immediately feel like a dork. I have a lot to learn. Being new to being gay is enough, but I also haven’t dated anyone in years.
John cocks his head. “No. This is dinner with mutual friends.” He leans close. “And thank God, we don’t have to eat roast beast hash.”
We both chuckle, but I can’t help feeling disappointed, which surprises me.
“But we can have a date tomorrow night, if you’re up for it. And available.”
Immediately, Violet’s face appears in my mind’s eye. Two night’s in a row? I can hear her asking. So this is how it’s starting to go? She’s hurt, maybe a little surprised. Should I tell John I have to check with the wife first? At that thought, I burst into a very unflattering giggle.
“Hey!” John throws up defensive hands. “Just never mind. Usually, they don’t laugh at me until we get in the bedroom.” He moves close. “Thanks for saving me the time.”
I have to rein in my laughter. “No, no. I’m not laughing at you.” I try to regulate my breathing back to normal, to wipe that grin off my face. Poor guy. “I was just laughing because I’ve never—” I don’t know how to put it. I’m in my early thirties, young and healthy. People say I’m cute. “I’ve never—” I swallow.
“Never what? I’m pretty vanilla, so don’t worry that I’m too jaded for you or anything.”
“I’ve just never been on a date with a man.” I say the words in a rush, knowing what they will imply to him—that I’m married or at least buried at the back of the closet. I look down suddenly, and yes, of course I’m wearing it. The gold band on my left hand glints in the illumination from the track lighting.
“A looker like you?” John asks, surprised. He then, as though my mind directed him to it, glances down at the ring on my finger. It comes together for him; I can see it as the puzzle pieces fall into place. “Ah…you’re married.”
I nod. “Got a kid too. A little boy, Henry. He’s gonna be six.”
John smiles but there’s a yearning ache in it; in his eyes too. “It all makes sense now.”
“That night at Sidetrack?”
He nods.
“First time out for me.”
“No wonder you were scared.”
“I was petrified.”
“No, first you were afraid, then you were petrified.”
My eyebrows come together in confusion. “What?”
“Nothin’. Pop culture reference. You’ll get it once you’re out longer.”
I stand with him in silence, nervously sipping. I wonder if the magic spell has broken, if this changes everything. We hear the sound of the phone ringing and Rory answering, telling the doorman-who-looks-like-Ken-Olin to “send him right on up.”
“Pizza’s here,” John tells me and then leaves the room.
My heart sinks. I don’t have the nerve to call out to him, “So is the offer of that date still on the table?”
I follow, very much doubting his invitation will stand. Why should it? I’ve been out enough (even in my own shy, limited capacity) to know that he’s got scores of hot, young, unmarried men to choose from. Why saddle himself with me and my problems?
I wish he would.
As I follow him, I tell myself I need to be ready for things not working out the way I want them to. I may need to explore that group I noticed in the Reader classifieds last week—the one that was looking for gay married men to meet up for coffee and “fellowship” at a straight café in Wrigleyville. The prospect seemed kind of depressing and off-putting to me—a bunch of guys with wives. Would I never move beyond being gay and married?
“Pizza! Pizza!” Rory cries as he throws open the door.
I plant a smile on my face and join everybody at the dining room table where Stephen’s already laid out paper napkins, Chinet, and glasses of Chianti.
THE EVENING DIDN’T go as awkwardly as I thought. In fact, after a few glasses of wine and a couple slices, I found myself laughing, hard, at the conversation. We move into the living room and watch a videotape, Young Frankenstein, which allows the laughter to continue.
It also gives John the freedom to sit close, the sides of our bodies touching. My hard-on waxed and waned, and I couldn’t believe how erotic the sides of two bodies, fully clothed, touching could be.
Toward the end of the evening, after the movie, and the cutlery and glasses are in the dishwasher, Rory and Stephen headed off to bed, telling John and me to just pull the door closed behind us when we leave. “You boys behave.” Stephen shakes a finger at us. “I don’t want to have poor Rory cleaning come stains off the couch in the morning.”
Rory just shakes his head. “Jesus, honey.”
Before heading off, they’d turned off most of the lights in the condo. Mood setting? Energy conservation? I don’t know and I don’t care. Suddenly, I’m alone in a cocoon of dim and quiet with John Walsh.
And I can’t think of a single thing to say.
After a time, John turns to me. “So, a married guy?”
I nod. There’s that feeling again of being caught between two worlds and belonging in neither. It makes me sad because I’m growing to like this guy a lot—Is this what a gay crush feels like?—and I suppose my marital status will eventually interfere with the two of us forming any kind of significant bond.
We’re still on the couch. I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Is that a problem? Really?” I want to circle back to him asking me out. It’s been on my mind the whole night.
He locks his gaze with my own. “Not unless it’s a problem for you. Let me ask you this—where do things stand with you and, uh, the wife?”
I blow out a sigh. What do I say here? Do I tell him it’s complicated? What can I say that won’t send him scurrying away? There’s no right answer, so I eventually decide on the truth. “We’re working on things. She’s a great woman—probably far too under
standing than I have a right to expect.” I pause to gnaw my lower lip for just a moment. I think of Violet out at the church social and wonder if she’s met any men. She’s good-looking—blond, beautiful figure—I know she’ll stand out. Will someone approach her? Has someone approached her already? The questions cause a wave of queasiness to rise up in my gut. Completely illogical and certainly not justifiable, but it’s my heart that’s sending an ache to my gut, not my head.
And yet…I still want to grasp at a chance with this guy sitting next to me.
I look down and then back up at him. “Look. The truth is we love each other. We always have. And we still do. We made a sweet boy together, and for better or worse, that little life will always keep us connected, no matter what. Violet knows I need to be true to who I am.” I stop, thinking of how close I came to suicide last winter, and the memory makes me shudder.
“But I’m ready to explore. To see what this world has to offer me.”
“The gay world?” John snorts and rolls his eyes. “Hate to tell you this, bud. But the prospects on Planet Queer are pretty grim.” His face kind of collapses into despair, and I can’t hold back. I touch his cheek for the briefest of moments, and he grabs my hand and squeezes it before letting go. I sit back, my hands in my lap.
John goes on. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that to a newbie.” He shrugs. “I’ve just been very unlucky in love.”
“You?” I ask in surprise.
“Yes. You flatter me. Thanks. But it’s true. Sex is easy. Love is a whole ’nother story.”
We sit for a while in the quiet and the dim. I feel him close to me, and it sends a surge to both my heart and my groin. I want to do more—to reach out, to hold him, to kiss him, to drop to my knees between those denim-clad thighs, tug at his zipper and—” Whoa! Where’s that shit coming from?
In the end, I say simply, “The wife wants me to meet a nice man. Someone she knows won’t hurt me. Someone she can feel safe knowing that when he meets our Henry, it will be okay.”
John nods. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I don’t know if I can make promises.”
