Between Boyfriends (23 page)

My personal life was less of a ratings bonanza.

I still didn’t know who had left the rose and card for me on New Year’s Eve so I wasn’t sure who was still thinking about me. The only rational explanation was that it was someone’s idea of a practical joke so I turned over a mini–new leaf and refused to concentrate on it. Since I also refused to concentrate on Brian’s shortcomings, he and I were getting along perfectly well. It helped that he had to go away on another business trip (this time a legitimate one) and that I was working overtime a lot and that we stayed away from bars and alcohol. It did still irk me that Brian never apologized for his behavior on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t want to bring it up because I, like many gay men I know, can be a coward. I didn’t want to get into an argument because I knew that Brian didn’t think there was anything to apologize for, and if he didn’t apologize then I didn’t want to be the one to say that I was wrong in the first place because deep down I knew I wasn’t wrong. But I chose to sweep it under the relationship rug and let it fester, knowing full well that at some point I would either have to confront him about his behavior or he would simply get drunk, badmouth my mother, blame me for being hostile toward Rodrigo, and throw up during a special occasion. Deep down I knew I would be waiting for the latter to occur. But until that time arrived it would be personal business as usual.

Since our four-and-a-half-month anniversary coincided with Valentine’s Day I thought it would be fun to have a romantic dinner. Brian thought so too and even volunteered to cook—and not order—dinner. He was going to cook my favorite meal—chicken cutlets, with mashed potatoes and corn. Maybe this was Brian’s subconscious way of apologizing. If nothing else at least he remembered what my favorite meal was. When it comes to romance, beggars sometimes can’t be choosers, so I was going to accept this dinner as an apology and be done with it.

On my way to Brian’s for our celebratory dinner I felt like I was walking in sunshine even though the February sky was gray and overcast. When I turned into Rainbows & Triangles to buy Brian a mushy anniversary card, the artificial sunshine grew so bright I thought it was going to permanently blind me. For right there in front of Chelsea’s premiere gay stationery store, I had bumped into my all-time favorite adult film star, Aiden Shaw.

Let this be said and understood for the generations to come: Aiden is way, way, way, way hotter looking in person. His green eyes sparkled to emit enough light that the flecks of gray in his hair looked like the silver tinsel on an angel’s wings. His puckered ruby red lips were so puckery that I instinctively wanted to trace them with my tongue. And his bulging muscles bulged right out of his leather jacket and low-waist super-tight jeans. When I looked down at what appeared to be size-13 black motorcycle boots I almost shot my load right then and there in the doorway. As was to be expected, my mouth had become so dry I couldn’t even speak, so Aiden spoke for me.

“Hello, sexy,” he cooed.

I smiled.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you. Perhaps I could take you back to my place to check for bruises.”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, mate, too strong? You remind me of the first lad I ever fucked and I’d fancy a romp with you in my flat.”

What poetry. Hell had just frozen over, the sky had just fallen, and Dr. Laura had just announced she was an antifamily bull dyke with an incurable lust for girl pussy. Aiden Shaw was propositioning me. Correction, Aiden Shaw wanted to take me home and fuck the shit out of me. I had dreamed about this moment ever since I saw his first porn video,
Night Force,
and now my dream was about to come true. So no one was more surprised than me when I said, “I can’t.”

“Aw, come on. We could do whatever you want. As long as I get to fuck your bum.”

What a charmer! I felt like Julia Roberts in some formulaic romantic comedy where she has to decide between two incredibly hot guys and only has a second to make the decision. Why couldn’t life really be like the movies? Then I could vamp while a musical montage played highlighting the special moments Brian and I had shared as well as the special moments I shared with myself watching Aiden’s porn movies, and by the end I’d know what I should do.

“So what’s it gonna be, sexy? You wanna get naked with me so I can relive some hot memories and give you some new ones?”

God is absolutely, positively cruel. And obviously a little bit gay because a straight man would never understand what a dilemma I was facing. Go with Aiden, get laid, then have dinner with Brian and feel guiltier than I had ever felt before. Or go to Brian’s and celebrate while thinking about Aiden’s ultra-fucking-hot naked body intertwined with mine.

“You have no idea how much I would love to go home with you, but I can’t. My boyfriend is cooking me an anniversary dinner and I’m expected in five minutes.”

Aiden looked at me as if he could see through to my soul.

“I wish I were lucky enough to have a boyfriend like you.”

And with that profound statement he leaned over and kissed me full on the lips, his tongue confidently licking mine, his manly hand holding the back of my neck. He smelled and tasted as divine as he looked. He pulled away and tucked a card in the front pocket of my pants.

“If you break up with your boyfriend, call me.”

I watched Aiden walk away and could not believe that that hot motherfucker was almost hotter from the rear view. I caught my breath, wiped away the sweat that was bubbling on my brow, bought Brian a very provocative card, and picked up flowers. All the way to Brian’s apartment I kept turning back in case Aiden was the tenacious type and might be following me.

Dinner was wonderful, conversation was easy, and Brian was on his best behavior. Ultimately, I was glad I had chosen dinner with him over a hot steamy fuck with Aiden. At least I thought I was happy. Later than night when we were having sex and Brian’s face was buried in my neck, I closed my eyes. To my surprise I didn’t see Brian’s face or even Aiden’s, I saw Frank’s. What the hell was my problem? I hadn’t thought about Frank in months, but ever since I got a rose and a juvenile secret admirer card I’d automatically leapt to thinking it was this guy about whom I knew nothing. I didn’t even know his last name; why was I picturing his face and not my boyfriend’s? Was our relationship that screwed up and beyond repair? And why oh why can’t men fake an orgasm?

Five minutes after Brian shot his load, and after much concentration, I finally came. Brian started kissing me and cuddling and I responded. How could I not respond to being treated so wonderfully and gently? But I hated myself too, because part of me wanted to push him away.

By the time I got to work the next day I had come to a decision. I could play the coward no longer. I had to talk to Brian about our relationship, to try and mend it before it got too out of shape. I wanted to know what he was thinking; was he remorseful for the things he’d said and done? Why had he said and done them in the first place? I also wanted to know if I’d been doing things that were upsetting him. Now that I had made a decision I felt good; I felt responsible, like an adult. Exactly one minute later I would feel like a scared, frightened child.

I didn’t recognize the caller’s number when my cell phone rang. “Hello?”

“Steven, this is Audrey. Meet me at Meadowlands Hospital as fast as you can. Your mother’s had a stroke.”

M
y earliest memory is from when I was six years old and my parents took me to Alexander’s, a now-defunct department store that was located somewhere off the New Jersey Turnpike. I remember thinking it was a magic store where all your dreams could come true. When I walked through the revolving door, my little jaw dropped as I was immediately thrust into sensory overload. The store was palatial and no matter where you looked you saw shiny chrome and bright colors all accompanied by a conflicting soundtrack of languid Muzak and the efficient, staccato rhythms of busy cash registers. I looked up at my mother, who was holding my hand, with wide-eyed innocence and joy. She understood the feeling and smiled back at me.

We walked down an aisle that was decorated on both sides with perfectly manicured mannequins wearing the most sophisticated outfits. I wanted to touch the mannequins’ clothing, the fur trim, the smooth Qiana, but I thought if I made contact they would disappear. We kept walking until we reached the most amazing sight I had ever seen in my entire six-year-old life: the toy department. I wanted to rush into this magical land and grab and touch and play and fulfill every wild six-year-old dream I had, but my mother squeezed my hand to slow me down. She wanted me to stop for a moment and take in the beauty that stood before me. She wanted to give me a little moment of magic.

The only other thing I remember from that day is the ride home from the store, my brother sitting next to me rolling a huge red Tonka truck all over the car seat and me clutching the box that contained my bright yellow, two-story, Fisher-Price dollhouse. My father was yelling something that I couldn’t understand, but I clearly heard my mother’s reply, “There is absolutely nothing wrong with Steven. He just likes houses.”

When the bus pulled up in front of Meadowlands Hospital, I had a split-second urge to stay in my seat and ride back to New York. I had not been frightened in a very long time. It’s an odd feeling, being frightened, sudden and with a steel grip. And it’s devious. Every couple of minutes it will release its hold and allow your mind to think of other things—the new billboard that wasn’t there the last time you took the bus, the muffled sounds coming from the iPod in front of you, your first memory—but then the feeling comes back even stronger than before, along with guilt for allowing yourself to be anything but frightened.

Just before I entered the hospital I tried to call Brian a third time. The first message I left on his voice mail at work was relatively calm, the second one I left on his cell phone was serious in tone, but this one was a frantic and detailed message telling him that my mother had had a stroke and had been rushed to the hospital. On the elevator ride up to the ICU, I was able to reach Flynn.

“My mother’s had a stroke, she’s at Meadowlands.”

“I’ll be right there.”

And then the doors to the elevator opened. There was no more time for phone calls or any other diversions; it was time to confront reality. I heard Audrey before I saw her.

“Steven! Over here.”

She looked just as frightened as I felt.

“Where is she?”

“In the ICU. The doctors are with her now.”

“Can I see her?”

“You have to ask. They won’t let me in because I’m not a blood relative. As if I need blood…I love that woman more than I loved my sister.”

“How is she, Audrey?”

Audrey looked at me with that face that you really never want to see. It’s the one that tries to, but can’t, hide the pity and sorrow, the one that is always accompanied by tragic news.

“Not good. We were watching an old
Merv Griffin
on cable and his guest was Totie Fields, you remember her, don’t you, Steven? Not a pretty woman, but funny. Merv asks her how she’s doing since her amputation and she says she’s taking it one leg at a time and actually takes off her artificial leg. I laughed so hard and I thought your mother was laughing too until she fell.”

“Thank God you were there, Audrey.”

“I will always be there for your mother,” she said, then gave me that look again. “And for you.”

Just when I thought Audrey was going to burst into tears, she shouted, “Doctor! Here’s the son.”

The doctor, a serious-looking Asian man, introduced himself to me, but since my mind was still filled with images of a one-legged female talk show guest, he sounded as if he spoke in the same language adopted by the adults in those Charlie Brown TV specials. The only words I could make out were
stroke, unconscious,
and
monitor.

“At least she’s stable,” Audrey said.

“He said stable?”

“Yes.”

Before I could quiz Audrey further about what Doctor with the Asian Last Name had said, my brother and Renée sprinted out of the elevator.

“Don’t worry, she’s stable,” Audrey proudly exclaimed.

Renée threw her arms around me. “How is she, Steven, really?”

I could feel my voice starting to shake. “Stable like Audrey said. Other than that we don’t know anything.”

Renée hugged Audrey and Audrey hugged Renée back and then Audrey hugged Paulie who sort of hugged Audrey back and then it came time for Paulie and me to hug. I expected Paulie to half-hug me, which is typical, but was surprised to feel my brother’s arms embrace me tightly. He held me to him close and long, the heat of his cheek warming mine, his sharp breaths tickling the nape of my neck. I was startled, but I didn’t let go. I needed that hug just as much as Paulie did.

Then we waited. We drank surprisingly good hospital coffee, which Audrey took as a good sign. “If they care this much about coffee, imagine how much they care about their patients.” We asked several nurses how my mother was doing, but each one merely replied with the same automated response, “I’ll check with the doctor.” Problem was Doctor with the Asian Last Name must have skipped out via the ICU’s back door because we never saw him reemerge. So we did what every family does who’s unfortunate enough to have to mark time in a hospital waiting room; we made small talk.

“You okay?” I asked Paulie.

My brother looked at me with the same anxious expression he’d worn when he was seven years old and asked me if there was a Santa Claus. Although I didn’t care for the duplicitous Mr. Claus, I knew that Paulie, like most children, loved the fat liar so I asked him if he believed deep down in his heart that Santa Claus was real and he whispered, “Yes.” I told him that as long as he believed in Santa, the fat man would always visit him on Christmas Eve and bring him toys. Now looking into his fearful eyes, I wished I could reassure my brother that as long as we believed deep down in our hearts that our mother would recover, she would.

“Not really,” Paulie responded. “You?”

“Not at all.”

I put my hand on top of my brother’s and rested it there. Paulie didn’t make a move to hold my hand—that would have been completely out of character—but he didn’t pull away. He let my hand cover his and I believed he welcomed the connection as much as I did. My mother, whether she was conscious or not, would be happy.

Almost two hours later we still hadn’t seen the doctor. Just as I was on the verge of understanding the rage behind Shirley MacLaine’s character in
Terms of Endearment
, Flynn got off the elevator. He wasn’t my mother’s doctor, but he was a friend and I really needed one at that moment. Everyone muttered hellos and I updated Flynn on the little bit we knew about my mother’s condition, then I took him aside and informed him of the other pressing matter that was causing me additional stress.

“And you’re sure you were specific and told Brian that she had a stroke? You didn’t just say ‘call me’?”

“I explained everything. And I’ve sent him two text messages updating him.”

Flynn took a deep breath. “Let’s stay focused on your mother and worry about him later.”

I wanted to spend the next hour bitching about Brian, but once again reality interceded and Doctor with the Asian Last Name finally entered the waiting room. Like no-name actors in a low-budget George A. Romero zombie film, we mechanically rose to hear the news from our leader.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get to you, we had several emergencies back-to-back; it hasn’t been a great day for the ICU.”

The news from our leader was not starting out good.

“Anjanette’s suffered a mild stroke. It doesn’t appear that there has been any permanent damage. We’ll monitor her overnight and she’ll have to be on some medication to increase blood flow, but I think she’s going to make a full recovery.”

For a second there was silence as we all said our thank-yous to God, but after that solemn second the zombie spell was broken and the ICU waiting room was filled with cheers. Audrey roughly embraced Doctor with the Asian Last Name, Paulie grabbed Renée and hugged her tightly and I stood there and watched. Before today I had thought I had someone to hug at such a moment, but I was wrong. That person couldn’t even respond to me no matter how hard I tried to reach him. I’m not sure what I felt first, the tears spilling down my cheeks or Flynn’s arms pulling me to him. I was grateful for both.

By the time we got to see my mother, she was propped up in bed eating boiled chicken with boiled potatoes and a medley of boiled vegetables, and watching
Oprah
on a little TV the nurses wheeled over for her. Other than the two machines next to her bed and the IV tube sticking out of her arm, she looked like she was lounging in her own bedroom.

“Come quick, Oprah’s gained her weight back!” she cried.

Upon closer inspection her pallor did look gray and her eyes a bit glassy—my mother’s, not Oprah’s—but she really did look like the mother I remembered and not a mother who had just had a stroke. We surrounded her like type-A bees around a hive, asking her repeatedly how she felt, had she been feeling poorly recently, and the usual hospital chitchat. She responded by asking where her granddog was, telling us all how much she loved us, and making a point to thank Flynn for coming.

Not long after, the nurses told us that we had to leave, but could come back tomorrow at nine. When it was just me and my mother, she took my hand and smiled at me like she did when we were strolling through the aisles at Alexander’s. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay.”

“Mama’ll be fine. I’m not so sure about you, though. What’s wrong?”

Even a few short hours after suffering a stroke, she could tell something was amiss in Stevenland. “I’m fine. Just worried about you.”

“You’re worried about something else too. Or is it a certain someone?”

I turned away, pretending to be very interested in the larger of the two machines next to her bed in order to avoid answering. Not original, but effective. “Listen to me, Steven. A mother’s job is to make her children happy, so my advice is if something’s worrying you…throw him away.”

I didn’t want to cry in front of my mother, but sometimes you have to do things to remind yourself that you are connected to someone else on this planet. She didn’t say anything else, she didn’t have to, she just put her arm around my shoulder so I could feel her connection. I felt as protected and loved as I did while sitting in the backseat of our car on the drive home from Alexander’s.

That night I was forced to grow up and act like an adult. Brian finally called me back and while our conversation was not long, it was definitive.

“Hey, Steven,” Brian chirped. “I have had the craziest day. Three deadlines and I had to squeeze in two production meetings. We’re doing an extra double issue this year and a special stand-alone for the latest tech products so everything is hyper.”

“Did you get my messages?”

“Oh yeah, I did. I just didn’t have a free moment to call back.” Pause. “How’s your mom?”

“Well…she had a stroke.”

“I know that. How is she?” I was hoping to hear concern in Brian’s voice, but I just heard clicking. “Are you typing?”

“Sorry, this article was due yesterday. All about reverse discrimination from the gay community toward the straights, you know, heterophobia.”

“She’s going to be okay.”

“What?”

“My mother, remember? The stroke was mild. She’ll need to be on some maintenance drugs, but otherwise she’ll be fine.”

“Great news.”

“I’m going to take off a few days and be with her so—”

“That’s perfect. I am so swamped with work that I’ll be living in my office. I probably won’t be able to see you for a few days.”

This was not the response I expected or deserved so I thought I would take one more shot. “What about the weekend? My mother’ll be back home by then.”

“Sorry, I can’t. We have an emergency layout meeting all day on Saturday.”

I was about to inquire about his Sunday schedule when he mentioned that he just got an e-mail from the primary source of his article who refused to sign a release form so he would have to throw out three-fourths of what he’d written thus far. Just throw it away. It was then that I remembered my mother’s advice.

“You know something, Brian, that’s not going to be a problem,” I said. “Because I don’t think we should see each other at all any longer.”

Was that relief I heard? “Steven, don’t get excited, we put the issue to bed in a week and my schedule will totally clear up after that.”

“Good. Then you’ll have lots more time to ignore your next boyfriend’s desperate messages when he calls you to say his mother had a stroke and might be dying in the hospital!”

This time I heard a heavy sigh along with the clicking. “So that’s what this is about. I told you I don’t do the mother thing very well.”

“You also don’t do the boyfriend thing very well! I may not be perfect, Brian! I know I make lots of mistakes when it comes to relationships and I made some with you, but if someone I care for reaches out to me I’m damned well gonna respond!” At this point I had absolutely no control over my anger so I just let it all out. “You didn’t even call me back to find out if she was dead! How could you be such a prick?”

The clicking continued. “I didn’t think it was my place. It’s not like I really know your mother.”

“Cut the shit, Brian—you know
me
! What the hell have you been doing the past several months if it hasn’t been getting to know
me
?”