A White Coat Is My Closet (12 page)

When we entered, we were greeted warmly by the hostess. She was an exotic-looking Thai woman with striking features. High cheekbones accentuated almond skin, dark eyes, and a beautiful smile that was welcoming though not flirtatious. She was petite but shapely, and her tight dress flattered the curves of what appeared to be an athletic and toned body. She escorted us to one of the tables and encouraged us to sit down. The table was so small it looked incapable of accommodating two people who intended to eat more than a single wonton, so it took some effort to maneuver into place. She laid the menus onto the placemats and then graciously informed us that our server would be over shortly. Her sinewy figure was so svelte it appeared she floated back to the hostess counter rather than walking.

I smiled at Declan as we unfolded our napkins. We both seemed to be thinking the same thing as we watched her walk away. “Sexy!” I noted. “And it all comes together for her without the slightest effort. Kind of reminds you of me, huh? If you’re nice to me tonight and pick up the tab, I might even be willing to give you lessons.”

The corners of Declan’s mouth turned up to reveal what really was a handsome smile. As he hung his sweatshirt over the back of his chair, he retorted, “The only lesson I could possibly learn from you would be on the art of attracting trolls.” He chuckled at his own joke as he tried to make himself comfortable on the narrow seat. Encouraged by the laugh I unintentionally allowed to escape, he continued. “You did have to write a dissertation to get into medical school didn’t you? What was the title? ‘Sleeping With Trolls: the Precautions and Perils. An Exposé of My Life!’”

In an attempt to interrupt what I thought for sure would become one of Declan’s stand-up monologues, and despite the fact that he invariably made me laugh, I quickly interjected, “Hey, I can’t help it if trolls think I’m irresistible. Besides, you’re the one who makes the mistake of sleeping with them.”

An expression of feigned indignation crossed his face. “There was just that one guy. Give me a break. The club was dark. In that mysterious blue haze, you thought he was pretty hot too.”

“Yeah, but at least I have the sense to drag a potential trick outside and look them over under a streetlight before I take them home.”

“But!” He averted his gaze and his grin became a little sheepish. “It was just that once, and in my defense, I had been doing a little drinking.”

Now I was the one hesitant to let the subject drop. I was having fun watching Declan squirm. “Poor guy. He thought that you sleeping with him meant the two of you were engaged. Didn’t he end up calling you five times a day for about a month after that?”

Declan tried to look noble. “Don’t remind me. That’s what I get for trying to let him down easy. I end up with a stalker who thinks if he’s persistent enough, we’ll end up registering at Pottery Barn.”

Truth be told, the guy hadn’t really been bad-looking. It was just that he had seen Declan from afar on a bunch of occasions and had developed a crush on him. When they ended up finally meeting and actually going home together, the guy thought his feelings for Declan were completely reciprocated. He’d immediately envisioned a future of wedded bliss. The whole episode had occurred more than a year before, but it still made for prime teasing material.

“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “In the sequel to my dissertation, I intend to devote a chapter exclusively to you.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Declan taunted. “You couldn’t even sell a copy of the first edition to your parents.”

“Thank God for that. Like you’d want your parents reading about your bedroom exploits.”

“Speaking about the next chapter in your book, you still haven’t told me about the guy you met at the pool. He must be something, because when you first mentioned meeting him, you had such a sickening sweet smile on your face, I figured you’d given yourself an enema with honey.” He sat back and grinned, ever proud of his uncanny ability to come up with witty one-liners.

“Hmm. I wondered what your secret was. A high colonic with honey. No wonder you attract bears.” Satisfied that I had succeeded in turning the joke back on him, I continued despite being certain I was wearing a shit-eating grin. “Funny you should ask. A few days ago I might have told you that I’d probably never hear from him, but he actually called last night. We’re going to spend the day together Saturday. We’ll meet for breakfast and then go for a bike ride on the beach.” My smile threatened to consume my whole face. “To say I can’t wait would be an understatement. I’ve got to say, Dec, it’s been a long time since I’ve been this excited about a date.”

“How cool is that, Zack! Well, come on. Spill the beans. What does he look like, what does he do, where does he live? Give me the whole scoop and spare no sordid detail.”

“What does he look like? That’s easy. One word: incredible. Probably five ten, around a hundred eighty-five pounds, body of death, hair the color of polished walnut, olive complexion, killer smile, and eyes that make you feel like you’re looking into a golden sunset.” Realizing that I sounded like a love-struck teenage girl, I tried to dampen my enthusiasm. “Did I mention that he was good-looking?” I was a little embarrassed about my overexuberant gushing, but I continued nonetheless. I was enjoying having the opportunity to tell Declan about the guy who had consumed my every waking thought for the past three days. “He’s Italian. And I mean
really
Italian. He grew up in Rome and has only been here about seven years. His English is excellent, but you should hear his accent. It rolls off his tongue like a fine wine. He could be telling you you had shit for brains and it would still sound like he’s trying to seduce you. Totally mesmerizing. He works as a waiter at Osvaldo’s, that high-end Italian restaurant on La Cienega, but he has aspirations of being an artist. I guess he’s maybe a couple years older than me. Maybe twenty-nine or thirty.” I realized I had been speaking without taking a breath, so, feeling a flush creep into my cheeks, I slowed down and tried to ask as casually as possible, “Does that cover the essentials?”

Declan just leaned back in his chair and smiled. He stared at me for a few seconds, then, in a tone exuding smug satisfaction, said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve already developed quite a crush. Just remember, I hold the top spot for the privilege of being maid of honor.”

I wadded my napkin into a ball and threw it at him. “Maid of honor? You’ll be lucky to be a valet. Besides,” I said, trying not to let my voice reveal my apprehensions, “even if I admit to having a teensy crush, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. After our bike ride, he might never want to see me again.”

Now it was Declan’s turn to lean forward. “Okay, Zack. We won’t get ahead of ourselves, but you’ve got to promise not to start with the self-put-downs. Even if this guy is God’s answer to greatness, he’s still lucky to have scored a date with you. I refuse to sit back and listen to you go off into one of your self-loathing sermons. I’m not saying you’re perfect.” He rolled his eyes but smiled to indicate that he was joking. “In fact, we both know you’re far from it. But this whole package here”—he waved his hand up and down my body—“is a pretty darn good one. Brains, brawn, and a heart of gold. You’ve got to learn to stop selling yourself short.”

I smiled. I really did appreciate Declan’s support. “You’re just saying that because you’re president of my fan club and don’t want to get demoted.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true. Besides, being in your fan club sucks. Other than free drugs, there are absolutely no perks, and the membership dues are killing me. Who can afford a buck fifty a year for the privilege of being your friend?” He threw my napkin back at me.

As usual, the time I spent with Declan was easy. In the five years we’d known one another, our friendship had become solid. We knew most of one another’s secrets, depended on one another for support, and reveled in the opportunities just to laugh.

I
REMEMBERED
the day I met Declan like it was yesterday and marveled at the fact that our introduction proved to be an unexpected twist of luck. At the time, I hadn’t dared to whisper to even a single soul that I was gay. Desperate to talk to someone about my inner turmoil, and with the fervent hope that I might meet someone to whom I would be attracted, I answered a personal ad in one of the local throwaway newspapers. I pored through all the various descriptions, then finally worked up the courage to answer one of the ads.

The “Men for Men” section of the personals had a specifically assigned telephone number, and each ad was associated with an individual extension. It cost two dollars per minute to respond to an ad, and the fee would appear directly on your phone bill. You dialed the number and were prompted to enter the appropriate extension. Then you’d hear a voice recording from the guy who placed the ad offering a more detailed description of himself. Upon hearing his message, you were encouraged to record a confidential response that should include your contact information. Only after you were completely enamored with the prospect of finding the love of your life did you hear the disclaimer informing you that the newspaper’s sponsor made absolutely no guarantee as to the authenticity of the client’s statement.

With trembling hands, I willed myself to dial. I listened to the guy’s enthusiastic outgoing message and description of himself, and then, with my intestines in a knot of anxiety, I began to record my response. Despite knowing I was being charged per minute, I felt compelled to rerecord my message multiple times because during the first two attempts my voice cracked like a testosterone-deficient teenager.

By the third attempt, though I was still convinced I must have sounded like a lovesick, mentally deficient, knife-wielding Freddy Krueger, I hung up before I gave myself permission to delete my response. Too late. The die was cast. He’d either call me back or make efforts to get a restraining order.

Two days later, Miles, the guy who had placed the ad, finally called me. As testimony to my insecurity, the anxiety of waiting for him to respond had caused me to lose two pounds. We spoke on the phone for about twenty minutes. At some point during our conversation, I relaxed enough to actually breathe normally, and we ended up sharing a fair number of laughs. Because I was still really cautious about disclosing too much personal information, I answered many of his questions with kind of vague generalities. The vibe he got from me, however, must have been mostly positive, because by the time we concluded our conversation, we were both eager to actually meet in person. We decided to hook up at a coffee shop the very next evening.

In order to be able to recognize one another when we met on our blind date, we described to one another what we would be wearing and then hung up.

I went to bed shortly thereafter but didn’t sleep a wink the entire night. I was too excited about the prospect of going on my first ever date with a guy. I wasn’t sure which contributed more to my insomnia, my eagerness, or my erection.

When I walked into the coffee shop the next day and recognized the blue polo shirt Miles promised to be wearing, I was immediately crestfallen. Physically, he wasn’t at all what he’d described himself to be. He had some definition, but rather than being muscular, he was actually a little flabby. As superficial as it sounded, I knew in an instant that I’d never be attracted to him, and had I not been so eager to talk to someone who was also gay, I might not have summoned the courage to even say “Hi.”

As it turned out, though, Miles really was very friendly and engaging. He made me laugh easily, and I found myself relaxing. In fact, shortly after our introduction he volunteered, “Look Zack, I can see by your reaction that you’re probably not as into me as I’d like you to be, but if you’re willing, I still think it would be cool to be friends. You up for it?”

My simultaneous relief and joy might have been palpable. I had no desire to see him naked, but I was also desperate to have a gay friend, and I genuinely liked Miles. In fact, I was probably more relaxed around him because I
wasn’t
attracted to him. Had I been, I’m sure I would have continued to be a bundle of insecure nerves.

The more we talked to one another, the more we laughed and the more relaxed I became. I ended up telling him how insecure I felt, how I had never actually dated another guy, and why, given that I was going into pediatrics, I felt it was so imperative that I remain in the closet. He was unbelievably encouraging, assured me that I was most definitely a good catch and was emphatic that if we were going to hang out together, I should accompany him and a couple of his friends to the gay beach down in Laguna on the upcoming weekend.

I enthusiastically accepted his invitation.

The following Saturday, I drove to Miles’s house early in the morning, was introduced to his two friends, and the four of us piled into his car and hit the road. Halfway through the two-hour drive, we pulled in to a grocery store to stock the ice chest with beverages and snacks. It felt both energizing and empowering to be visiting with three men and not feel like I had to be vigilantly guarded about everything I said. Riding with them, I didn’t have to hide the fact that I was gay. In his car, being gay was the norm, not the exception. More importantly, when I was with them, I was not made to feel like my sexual orientation was a shameful state of being. The experience was so liberating I felt almost giddy.

I asked a lot of questions about how they had each come out and about the men they had previously dated. I also wanted to know if their bosses knew they were gay and how that information had affected their employment. Thinking about that day made me smile. Those three guys, who were essentially almost complete strangers, appreciated how new I was to the whole scene and immediately took me under their wings like mother hens. They were determined that I would have a good day and feel comfortable and accepted.

We parked the car in a neighborhood about a quarter mile above the entrance to the beach and began walking down the hill. To get to the beach, which couldn’t be seen from the road, we had to descend a long flight of stairs. The second we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, I was struck by feeling like I had died and gone to heaven. It appeared that every square foot of the sand was covered by good-looking men clad in sexy swimwear. Everywhere I looked I saw men swimming, lounging on towels, talking to one another while standing in the waves that lapped gently against the sand, or playing smash ball just at the water’s edge.