William J. Mann

by Men Who Love Men (lit)

  And he’s Shane’s boyfriend.

  “Hey,” I say in return.

  Eddie smiles. “I knew your friend Jeff years ago.”

  That’s it. That’s where I’ve seen him. In photographs in Jeff’s album. Except then Eddie was younger. And Jeff knew him as Eduardo.

  “I recognize you,” I manage to say. “Jeff has mentioned you.” He carried a fairly large torch for you for a long time, too, I might add. But I don’t.

  “Tell Jeff I said hello, will you?” Eddie asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  I can’t say much else. I’m struck by colliding emotions. The first is embarrassment: I had come dangerously close to suggesting to Shane that we get back together. The second is envy: Eddie is hot. Envy is followed very quickly by disbelief: this hottie is with Shane? Shane of the squishy body and average looks? And then I feel chagrined: how can I reduce Shane to such descriptions, this man who once loved me?

  Finally, it is embarrassment to which I return: not so much for setting myself up for rejection, but for having allowed myself to imagine a reconciliation with Shane. It was an act borne of desperation—not because Shane is unworthy of me, but because I had thought him an easy catch, a quick fix to my loneliness. If I can’t have whom I want, I was reasoning, I’ll take Shane; having someone is better than having no one. Embarrassment mingles with shame. In truth, it is I who am unworthy of him.

  Eddie is handing us our food and coffee.

  “You are such a doll to do this,” Shane is telling his boyfriend.

  “You okay?” Eddie asks me. “You had a bike accident?”

  “I’ll live,” I assure him.

  It’s what I told Joey, too, that day at the coffee shop when he said good-bye. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now.

  I watch as Eddie kisses Shane once more on the lips. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. I’m up at the house with the guys. Remember we’re doing the bike trails in an hour.”

  “I remember, sweetums,” Shane says.

  “Good to meet you, Henry,” Eddie says. “Don’t forget to say hi to Jeff.”

  “Good to meet you too,” I manage to say.

  We both watch as he heads back up the beach toward the street.

  “So,” I say, turning to Shane, who’s already sitting back down on the overturned boat unwrapping his breakfast. “How long have you two been together?”

  “We just had our one-year anniversary.”

  It’s like a knife jab. “Why did you never tell me?” I ask.

  Shane smiles just before taking his first bite. He chews and swallows his food before answering. “Because you never asked,” he says.

  I sit beside him on the boat. The pain is still quite sharp, but I want to be even with him so I can look him in the eye.

  “So you love him,” I say.

  “We’re getting married,” Shane tells me.

  “Of course you are.” I laugh a little. “That’s what the gays are doing these days, isn’t it?”

  “Some of the gays.” Shane looks kindly at me. “Eat your breakfast, Henry.”

  I’m not hungry. I take a sip of my coffee instead.

  “Sorry for being such an idiot earlier,” I say.

  “To be quite frank, Henry, I’m used to you being an idiot.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He cocks his head as he looks at me. “I was with you for a long time, remember. I know how you can be.”

  I make a face. “It wasn’t that bad. We had some good times.”

  Shane grins. “Henry, I have a feeling that your memory of our time together is a bit muddled.”

  “It is not. I remember it all very well.”

  He scowls. “So why did we break up?”

  “Because we realized we weren’t meant to be lovers.”

  Shane gestures with his hands as if to say his point is proven. “No, Henry. We broke up because you realized you weren’t meant to be my lover.”

  “It was mutual.”

  He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I accepted the inevitability of it. It was graceful. It was amicable.” He leans in close. “It was not mutual.”

  I look at him. “So you wanted to keep trying with me?”

  He smiles. “I would have kept trying with you until I was ninety.” He takes a quick sip of his coffee. “I may have given up at ninety-one, but until ninety, I was willing to stick it out.”

  “But now?”

  He shrugs. “You haven’t commented on my ring.”

  I look down at his hand. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? A gold band set with a small diamond flashes on his right ring finger.

  “An engagement ring,” he says, his voice thick. “Eddie gave it to me a few weeks ago. Can you imagine? A man like him giving an engagement ring to me?”

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “I never imagined the possibility. A man like Eddie—with whom once even the great almighty Jeff O’Brien was besotted—asking me to marry him.”

  “I said congratulations.”

  Shane looks at me. “Certainly, after you, I couldn’t have imagined it.” For the first time, there’s some bitterness in his voice. “You haven’t changed, Henry. I can’t believe you still thought you could come traipsing back to me when everyone else failed you. How often did I feel that way? I was your port of last call, even when we were supposedly a couple.”

  “I said I was sorry, Shane.”

  “But then you tried to do the same thing today.” He laughs. “Not for a second did you ask me what was new in my life. It was all about you. You presumed I was right where you left me. You gave no consideration to the idea that I might have gone on with my life.”

  I can’t reply. He’s right.

  “From where I sit, Henry,” Shane is saying, taking another bite of his bagel, “you’ve had three hot guys in a matter of weeks pick you up, and a fourth has tried. God forbid, he was a decrepit forty-five! And I’m supposed to feel sorry for you? Henry, if you think you were an idiot out here with me, I’d suggest you look at the rest of your life as well.”

  “Okay, Shane. I really don’t feel like being called names.”

  “Sweetie, how can I take you seriously? How can I feel for you, sympathize with your loneliness, when you tell tales of all these men throwing themselves at you? Do you know how many guys would trade places with you?”

  “But none of these guys are available for relationships!”

  Shane makes a sour face. “How the fuck do you know? You don’t give them a chance! The way I see it, you’ve prejudged that poor little Luke boy. You’ve never been honest with Gale. And you’ve ruled out Evan and Martin for your own idiosyncratic reasons.”

  “I am not getting involved with a married man!”

  Shane shrugs again. “Lots of guys have successful three-way relationships.”

  “Not me,” I insist.

  “Then give me one good reason for rejecting Martin out of hand. And don’t you dare say he’s too old!”

  “If you don’t want me to be honest, Shane, then there’s no point in talking.” I’m holding my ground. “I’m just being who I am.”

  “Which is small-minded and selfish.” He finishes his bagel, crumbles up the wrapper and stuffs into the bag. “Sorry to be blunt, but you are. You say Evan fit all the criteria for your Mr. Right. Apparently I didn’t come close. And I’d bet my engagement ring here that the main disparity between Evan and me is the thickness and hardness of our pectorals and biceps.”

  My eyes involuntarily drop to Shane’s saggy man-tits. I return my gaze to his face as quickly as I can reassert control.

  “No, Shane,” I say, “it’s not like that…” But it’s futile to protest.

  “You say it wasn’t always fabulous between us,” Shane continues. “You’re right. It wasn’t. But it is always fabulous with Eddie.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’m glad for you.”

  “No, you’re not.” His voice has softened. “And th
at’s okay, Henry.”

  I make a move to stand, but the pain twists through my thigh again. I groan a bit and sit back down.

  “You poor baby,” Shane says, and begins kneading my leg.

  Without even realizing it, I start to cry.

  Shane seems to pay no attention to my tears, but of course he’s aware. “You know that a part of me will always love you, Henry. Underneath all your frustrating outer layers, you’re actually a loveable guy.”

  “Maybe you can write me a reference I can pass out to guys that I date.”

  He laughs. “Stop being so afraid of what you want, Henry. I have a sense you may be making it all a lot more difficult than it really is.”

  I don’t reply. I just close my eyes and allow myself to feel the sensations of Shane’s hands on my leg.

  “I’ve got to run,” he whispers at last. “We’re all going on a bike ride…”

  I open my eyes. Shane and his lover and his friends. He’s moved on, found his own world.

  “I really am happy for you,” I tell him.

  He stands, reaching down to kiss me on the forehead like the Good Witch of the North. “Take care of yourself, Henry,” he says. “Promise?”

  I nod.

  “Come on,” he says. “Let me help you back up to the street.”

  “I’ll be fine. I want to sit here for a while longer.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “You haven’t eaten your breakfast.”

  I nod. “I’ll save it for later. Can I give you some money?”

  “It’s on me. Or rather, it’s on Eddie.”

  “Thanks.”

  Shane cocks his head looking down at me. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “No,” I admit honestly. “But I want to give it a try on my own.”

  He smiles. He gathers up his trash and turns to face me one last time. He blows me a kiss. I smile.

  Then he heads up the beach and is gone.

  I sit on the overturned boat and watch the waves for probably close to an hour. Guys with their dogs pass. A mother and father with a toddler running after them slosh barefoot through the surf. Finally I stand. The pain is still there, but I manage to trudge across the beach without falling.

  I take it as a sign that I’m going to be okay.

  15

  AN APARTMENT IN THE WEST END

  Three days have passed since I saw Shane, and I am a man transformed.

  “Well,” I say to Gale, “what is it going to be?”

  Our eyes hold. I do not back down.

  Gone is the passive Henry Weiner who’s allowed himself to be lured into pseudo-relationship for too long. This time, I will not endure being asked once again to leave his apartment just as things start to get heated.

  It took some effort to get to this new mindset. When I realized that—due to my Labor Day focus on Shane—I’d forgotten to call Gale as I’d promised, I quickly punched in his number and left a message on his voice-mail. “This is Henry,” I said, summoning all the authority I could muster. “Call me. We are having dinner on Thursday night and then we are seeing Maggie Cassella’s show before it’s over. I’ll be at your house at seven.”

  Well, he didn’t call back right away. For a day and a half I waited, suddenly doubting the wisdom of my newfound aggressiveness. I think Gale’s hesitation suggested he was struggling with the idea of someone else taking control. I was just about to steel myself and call him again—Shane’s words “Stop being so afraid of what you want” echoing in my mind—when my cell rang. It was Gale. “Can we make it seven thirty?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, refusing to give an inch. “It won’t allow us enough time for dinner before Maggie’s show.”

  He grunted, but agreed. I’d won that round.

  Now, I faced the greater challenge. Dinner had been fine, some laughs, some good discussion, and then, much to his surprise, Gale had adored Maggie, proclaiming, “She’s not like most lesbians.” In my head, I filed away his apparent dyke-phobia, vowing to confront him on it in the future.

  So many layers of protection seemed wrapped around this guy. If I want him—and I’ve come to believe that I do, that he may be the One—I’m going to need to peel them away one at a time.

  “So,” I repeat, looking over at him, “what is it going to be?”

  “I think you’re being unfair, Henry,” Gale says.

  “Unfair? I’m not the one who keeps pulling away when things start getting good.”

  We’ve come back to his apartment, as usual, and in his doorway we shared a kiss. Once again my hands were all over his hard back and round butt. But, true to form, Gale extricated himself, excusing himself so he could take a pee. When he came out of the bathroom, I lowered the boom.

  “Gale,” I said, “if you’re going to ask me to leave before we have a chance to make love, I’d like you to tell me now, so that certain, er, expectations don’t get raised.”

  I can tell he isn’t used to such directness. This new, assertive Henry Weiner is making him nervous.

  He assumes a typical defensive posture, his arms crossed over his chest. “How can I know if I’m ready until I’m there, in the moment?” Gale asks me. “How can I predict how I’ll feel at any given time?”

  “All I’m saying is, if you’re still not ready to go there with me, I just want to know. I’m not going to try to force myself on you. I’d just like to leave here on my own accord for a change. I’m tired of being asked to leave.”

  “You have no idea what you’re asking me, Henry.”

  “Yes, I do. I am asking you to overcome your fear.”

  Gale’s face goes white. He looks away.

  I try a softer approach. “What was it, Gale? You say your family was never all that religious, but you have some fierce antagonism against religion. Did someone foist upon you the idea that sex was bad? Is that why are you still a virgin after all these years?”

  “I’m not a virgin,” he says in a small voice.

  “But you said—”

  “I said I’d never done it with a guy before.”

  I sigh. “So you’ve had sex with women.”

  “One woman.”

  “Okay. And now you feel weird being a man who’s having sex with another man.”

  He gives me a strange smile. “You could say that.”

  I approach him and touch his cheek with the back of my hand. “Is this okay?”

  Gale closes his eyes. “Yes.”

  “How long were you with this woman?”

  “Six years.”

  “Did you love her?”

  “I thought so. At first.”

  “Did she take it hard when you told her you were gay?”

  He opens his eyes and looks at me. “That’s not how it happened, Henry.”

  “Tell me then.”

  He moves away. “You know, Henry, you have a lot of nerve. You think I can just come back here after eating tofu burgers with you and spill my guts? That I can open up to you about my whole life and the way I feel about things just because we shared a few laughs at a comedy show?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I was actually hoping for exactly that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you.”

  He flashes those intense eyes at me. “Do you? Or are you just lonely, Henry? And am I merely convenient?”

  I shake my head. “Gale, you are far from convenient.”

  He’s fired up. “What’s the most important thing—the most basic, underlying element—that you need from a lover? Tell me, Henry. What is it?”

  I’m at a loss for a moment. Gale’s tendency to ask such absolute questions can be jarring. “Honesty,” I finally utter.

  “Be more basic than that,” he challenges me.

  “What’s more basic than honesty?”

  He smirks. “Henry, we are talking right past each other.”

  “Well, if we are, I don’t know what more to do about it.”

  Gale turns away. “I like you, too
, Henry. But I can’t be what you want.”