Between Boyfriends (32 page)

The next stop on my path to a happy life was a visit to the Gay Life Expo with Lindsay and Gus. This annual event at the Jacob Javits Center was a trade show for all things gay and a perfect way to be reminded that gay can equal happy. Everywhere you looked there were rainbows, leather, dazzling displays of unnecessary grooming products, impeccably dressed and coiffed men, and no-carb snacks. There were also nonstop live performances from a slate of no-name disco artists of mixed ethnicity. Come to think of it, the Gay Life Expo wasn’t as simple as I had hoped it would be. Luckily, Lindsay was the queen of simplifying.

“Where’s the black boy?” Lindsay asked.

“Jefferson has a matinee,” Gus replied. “And if I weren’t so concerned about Wendolyn, I’d publicly spank you for being so rude.”

Lindsay sneaked a glance in my direction.

“As much as public displays of humiliation have been known to turn me on,” Lindsay said, “I have to ask: what’s up with Wendolyn?”

Gus couldn’t hide behind his typical staunch British veneer; this time emotion actually showed on his face. “I got another e-mail from her asking me to meet her at
ylf xp.
”

“What the hell is
ylf xp?”
I asked.

“Gay Life Expo without the
g or
the vowels!” Gus explained. “She’s off her biscuit, I tell you. I know I’ve ignored it all these years, but my sis has got problems.”

“The
g
thing,” I offered.

“Yeah, and now…” Gus said, hardly able to finish his sentence, “she can’t even say her vowels!”

“
Y
is sometimes a vowel,” Lindsay reminded him.

“I just know it has something to do with that mysterious package she got in the mail.”

Lindsay gasped, then tried to cover. “I hate the post office!”

“What was in the package?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“She never said, but Lenda translated one of her e-mails and said Wendolyn felt the contents of that package had forced her to question her entire existence.”

Lindsay shot me the same kind of look that Katie Holmes reportedly shot to her mother right after saying “I do” in front of a church full of Scientologists.

“Mates, I think it’s time I faced facts,” Gus said. “Wendolyn is not well!”

“Wendolyn is dead, big brother! But
Gwendolyn
is back and she’s here to stay!”

That announcement wasn’t just shouted to the hysterical British hunk, it was proclaimed over the loudspeaker, so that all the Expo attendants could hear.

“I got my groove back, Gus!” Gwendolyn gushed from a nearby stage.

“Thank God, it’s a miracle!” Gus gushed back.

“It wasn’t God, it was the bloke who sent me every G-Man comic ever printed,” Gwendolyn explained. “It almost broke me, but then it made me shout ‘Gee, I want to live!’”

Lindsay clutched my hand and tears sprang from his eyes. “Steven, I’m a miracle worker!”

Glenda joined Gwendolyn onstage and they introduced themselves as the new hostesses of “Gay Girls A-Go-Go”—Logo’s latest foray into lesbian reality TV. Each week they’d be inviting a bunch of lesbians to their London pad, turning on the cameras, and capturing all the lesbian goodness. Not something I would personally watch, but I felt sure there was an audience for it.

A few booths away, I glimpsed someone I had paid good money to see. It was Aiden Shaw. He looked even better than he had the last times I’d seen him—in person and in video while masturbating that morning.

“Make your move, Steven,” Lindsay demanded.

“No,” I said, dry-mouthed. “He looks too busy.”

“I found Gwendolyn’s G-spot, I can find yours too.”

And without a second thought, which is usually how Lindsay works, he pushed me through the crowd that was gathered at Aiden’s booth until I was face-to-face once again with my porn idol.

“Hi, Aiden,” I squeaked.

“Steven! So you got my messages?”

What? I had felt my cell phone vibrating in my jeans all day, but I hadn’t picked up because I’d thought Jack was trying to get in touch with me.

“Yes,” I improvised. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Great, I get off at seven. Come back and we can get off together?”

Cheeky! But totally hot at the same time.

“It’s a date, mate.”

Cheekier! And hopefully Aiden thought my ass looked totally hot as I pushed my bad self through the crowd to rejoin Lindsay.

“Who’s gonna get porn-fucked tonight?” I asked. “Oh, that would be me!”

We both laughed and I realized that some phrases would never find their way into the hetero lexicon. Or some images. A few aisles away Lindsay and I spotted Gus looking helpless next to Flynn, who was crying in front of a huge dildo. Now while it’s true that Flynn can’t really take more than seven inches without discomfort, the giant eight-foot, rainbow-colored dildo was obviously a promotional display and not meant for practical use.

“Don’t cry, Flynn,” Lindsay said. “We’re not all meant to be power bottoms.”

“Gus, what’s going on?” I asked.

Gus made a
this-is-really-bad
face and Flynn made a halfhearted attempt to wipe away his tears before shoving a piece of paper into my hands. It was a printout from a Web site with a picture of Flynn and Lucas from the Emmys. They both looked so handsome, how could this be a bad thing? Then I saw the headline:
Daytime Superstar And His HIV+ Boyfriend.

Flynn started crying again. “I’ve been outed, Steven, all over again.”

I hugged my friend. “It’s going to be okay.”

My friend pushed me back. “No, it’s not.”

“Lucas knew this might happen,” Gus offered.

“But I never did! How stupid was I to think something like this would remain a secret? Look at him up there, getting interviewed as if nothing’s happened.”

We turned around to see Lucas on a stage being interviewed by every member of the gay and gay-friendly media.

“He’s probably telling them right now that his boyfriend’s HIV status doesn’t concern him. That he’d love me even if I were negative.”

“And you know he means it, don’t you?” I asked. “It’s not just PR talk.”

“I know he means it and I love him for it, but Steven, you know how hard I try to rise above this every day. It’s been a struggle and that’s with only a few people knowing. I don’t know how the hell I’m going to handle the entire world knowing I have AIDS.”

“You don’t have AIDS, asshole,” Lindsay corrected. “You’re HIV-positive, that’s a big difference.”

“Tell that to the clients who fired me this morning.”

“You lost clients over this?” I asked rhetorically, then added even more rhetorically, “They can’t do that, it’s illegal.”

“It’s immoral,” Gus said, “but not illegal.”

“It’s the American way! Admire those living with the disease, just don’t get close to them. I’m sure this is just the beginning; once the word gets out I’ll lose some more clients and then my job and what’ll I have then, nothing.”

“You’ll have your friends and a boyfriend who loves you,” Lindsay said.

“Who the hell are you?” Flynn asked. “You know as well as I do that without your career you’re nothing. I am an attorney: if I can’t practice law, I can’t do anything.”

The dildo stand was starting to draw a crowd, so we guided Flynn away from the plastic loveshafts. We didn’t realize that we were guiding him right into the lion’s den.

“There’s the boyfriend!”

Before we could make an exit we were surrounded by thrusting microphones and eager, well-groomed reporters. Under different circumstances and less obtrusive lighting, I might have thought I was in a back room somewhere.

“When did you tell Lucas you were positive?”

“Do you always practice safe sex?”

“Will your status endanger Lucas’s role on the show?”

I saw Flynn open his mouth, but heard nothing come out. He squeezed my hand tighter and I could see his face turn white and beads of sweat form on his brow. He was scared and I felt helpless. Lindsay, Gus, and I could physically whisk him away, we could try to claim our inner-Sean Penn and punch out one or two reporters, but what good would that do? The damage was done. Flynn was outed for being positive and he was devastated.

“Get the hell away from that young man!”

The voice that commanded the media to back away from Flynn was none other than my mother’s. Before I could even ask what in the world my mother was doing at the Gay Life Expo, she told everyone that Lenny Abramawitz, who was standing on her left, wanted to check out the End of the Rainbow Retirement Home for Gay Seniors, but hadn’t wanted to come alone so she and Audrey, who was standing on her right, had joined him.

The reporters were so shocked by the vision of three people over the age of sixty-five at a Gay Life Expo not dressed in head-to-toe leather that they did as my mother asked. Then she asked me what was going on and for the second time in recent memory I found myself under harsh lights and near a microphone. I squeezed Flynn’s hand tighter before I spoke.

“They found out that Flynn’s HIV-positive.”

Neither my mother, nor Audrey, nor Lenny changed their expressions. They simply responded in unison, “So?”

I tried to explain the gravity of the situation. “They, um, seem to think this is newsworthy.”

By this time Lucas had made his way off the stage and was standing next to Flynn. When he looked at Flynn’s terrified face, I could tell Lucas loved him because he looked just as terrified. Despite the terribly awkward situation, I felt happy to know that my friend had found something so wonderful.

“And I keep trying to tell them it doesn’t change a thing,” Lucas said. “I’m in love with Flynn and I’m proud to be his boyfriend.”

“But Lucas, do you think this is going to hinder your career?” shouted a reporter. “Is anyone going to want to hire you if they think you could be positive?”

“That’s ridiculous!” my mother shouted. “My husband was diabetic and I didn’t get it from him. And trust me, we had lots of sex.”

“Ma!”

“Honey, everybody knows your father was diabetic, it’s not a secret.”

“And even though I too am a diabetic,” Audrey said, “I did not get it from Anjanette’s husband. I never had sex with Tony.”

If I hadn’t still been trying to make sense of my mother’s diabetes-as-STD comparison, I would have had to acknowledge that I was no longer going to die without hearing a word about my father’s sex life. Sometimes you just have to let go of things. And that’s just what Lenny did.

“I have herpes.”

The hardened journalists gasped and one newbie almost fainted.

“It is not something I like to share with people, it’s something I wish I didn’t have, but it’s something that I have to deal with on a daily basis. Some days I deal with it better than others, but it’s my something to deal with, not the world’s. Wouldn’t you agree with me, Flynn?”

“Yes, I would, Lenny.”

“Since when does every personal secret have to be aired on national TV? The only people who need to know if Flynn is positive or negative are himself, his doctor, and Lucas. And Lucas doesn’t care, so why does anybody else?”

There was a silent pause, then one by one the reporters lowered their microphones, closed their notebooks, and walked away, some of them shrugging their shoulders at Flynn as if to say, “Hey dude, I’m only doing my job.”

“Lenny,” I said, shaking the old man’s hand. “You’re very brave.”

“Nah,” he said, not letting go of mine. “I’m just old and at some point you have to stop caring what the world thinks of you.”

“I would like to apologize,” I started.

“For what?” Lenny asked. “For thinking I’m a dirty old man? I
am,
but just because I’m a dirty old man doesn’t mean I can’t treat myself and my friends with respect.”

Flynn, Lucas, Lindsay, Gus, my mother, and Audrey were engaged in a group hug that they pulled me and Lenny into. Nothing had really changed—Flynn was still positive and he and Lucas would still have to deal with the fallout from this breach of privacy, Lenny was still a lech with herpes and would still have to take medication to control his outbreaks, Audrey was still diabetic and kind of stupid (my mother later explained to me that when Lenny said he had herpes Audrey thought he was talking about a Hermes scarf)—but I felt that rush of joy again. I was surrounded by goodness, in spite of it all.

On my way home I tried to push all thoughts of the disquieting events of the day from my mind and concentrate on how absolutely perfect and perfectly surreal my night was going to be. Finally, after years of fantasizing and masturbating, I was going to cross the line and have sex with Aiden Shaw. I had three hours to douche, shower, and get just a little bit drunk so I wouldn’t chicken out. Unfortunately, the disquieting events of the day weren’t over.

On my walk to Aiden’s hotel I knew who was calling, but I answered my phone anyway. “Hi, Jack.”

“So you invited your mother to the Gay Life Expo, but not me.”

Jack explained that our impromptu media showdown was all over the media, and I explained how Lindsay had dragged me there and how my mother and company happened to show up at the wrong place at the right time.

“I love your mother, she’s got some big balls. But who’s the old dude with herpes?”

At that moment I got a text from Aiden that read:
It’s waiting for you.
I clicked on the attached photo: it was a close-up of his suckalicious, maybe-more-than-ten-inch, uncut dick. My mouth watered and I was lost in a familiar fantasy. Somewhere I could hear a guy calling out to me. “Steven! Steven, are you there?”

I was still looking down at Aiden’s dick, ignoring Jack’s questions, when I bumped into a guy on the street. I was right smack-dab in the middle of fantasy and reality. Right in front of me was Frank, the Starbucks Sunday Regular.

W
ould someone please page John Edward, because I believe I have crossed over?
Truly, the moment I saw Frank I felt as if I had died. Images of my entire life for roughly the past year flashed before me. I saw myself sitting across from Lindsay at Starbucks, Lindsay throwing Frank’s
New York Times
to the floor, Frank’s gorgeous green eyes for the first time, Frank sitting by himself staring at me, Frank approaching my table with his confident sexy swagger, the Patti LuPone article, Frank’s denim-clad ass leaving Starbucks. Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank.

Then (still thinking I ought to be looking for the light) I saw myself obsessing over why Frank never called me back; myself near tears with Flynn trying to figure out why I was obsessing; Flynn near tears trying to get me to realize that I had to stop obsessing and take control of my emotions; Frank’s beaming face as I had obsessively imagined it so many times when I was at work, at a bar, or having sex with Brian. Then I crossed back and was no longer dead, dying, or obsessive. I was alive and I saw Frank right in front of me.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Frank said.

“Had you returned any of my phone calls you would have,” I replied.

If gay men, especially those living in Metropolitania, want to transcend the image of the polygamous, emotion-free sex hound, they need to return a phone call every now and again.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been in a coma.”

“
A coma?
” I said.

“Right after I left you at Starbucks I turned the corner and was hit by a taxi. I was in a coma for about eight months.”

When Sid Fairgate didn’t survive his season-two car crash cliffhanger on
Knots Landing,
I was shocked. When
Bare Essence
crashed in the ratings and didn’t even make it back for a second season, I was stunned. But this was even more bizarre.

“You’ve been in a coma?” I asked. “That’s your excuse for not calling me?”

Frank nodded and pointed to his cheek. “See this scar? This is where I had twelve stitches.” Then he rolled up his left sleeve. “And this one? This is where a loose piece of the taxi’s fender cut three veins.” And then he pulled up his T-shirt and pushed his jeans down a bit to reveal a thin, long scar that I could only imagine was from being punctured by the taxi’s hood ornament.

“Okay, I believe you!” I shouted before Frank had to strip naked on the street just to prove his point. “I believe you were in a coma. I am so sorry. And all along I thought you just weren’t interested.”

“That’s the furthest thing from the truth,” Frank said, blushing. “The first thing I did when I woke up was ask if the guy from Starbucks had called.”

“I did call you,” I protested, “several times! On your cell phone, your home phone—”

“My cell phone was crushed in the accident. The taxi ran over it right after it rolled over my ankle. And my mother retrieved all my phone messages, but my mother isn’t what you’d call a technological genius. She’s not really a genius at anything, except, of course, being a mother.”

My knees buckled a little bit like when the kind Asian doctor told Karen that Sid died on the operating table. Frank and I really had shared more than a passing Starbucks moment, we also had a maternal connection. But then when Brian first talked about his mother I thought we shared a connection too.

“My mom’s wonderful. I couldn’t have survived the accident without her. From what the nurses tell me she practically took up residence at St. Vincent’s.”

But Brian never talked about his mother like that.

“I can’t believe you’ve been at St. Vincent’s…in a coma…all this time. I thought you might be in St. Bart’s or St. John’s cavorting on the beach with some other guy you picked up at Starbucks talking about Patti LuPone’s career. I have to say I’m much happier to know that you’ve been in a coma.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, holding my gaze even though I could see his eyes watering up.

“I guess it’s been pretty tough going.”

“The past few months have been difficult; rehabilitation isn’t fun no matter how muscular your therapist is.”

“Please tell me you at least had a guy therapist and not some burly woman.”

“I demanded a man. I said I hadn’t felt a man’s touch in way too long and, of course, that girls have cooties. To which the lesbian nurse replied, ‘Only if they’ve recently returned from South America.’ Keyshawna was cool, though, and hooked me up with Rutger, a twenty-five-year-old Swiss-German bodybuilder, whose hands are weapons of torture, but whose nipples could cut stone. So the pain was worth it.”

“I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Me too.”

“And I’m glad you’re right here.”

“Me too.”

“
Beep!”

I was so startled that I dropped the cell phone when Jack called back. Frank and I bopped heads when we both bent down to pick it up. Frank reached the phone first.

“That looks like Rutger.”

It was my turn to blush. Aiden’s cock photo was still on my screen in all its uncut glory. I tried to make light of it. “Oh, you know how gay boys love their Photoshop.” What wasn’t funny was that Jack was calling me and I had absolutely no desire to pick up. Wasn’t I just saying something about the link between gay men and bad phone etiquette?

My fingers fumbled around the keypad for the
OFF
button while my mouth mumbled something about the phone call not being important and the cock in the photo being a practical joke. Then I decided to stop being diffident and emulate one of my idols—resident
Knots Landing
vixen Abby Fairgate Cunningham Ewing Sumner—and be a man.

“Let’s go to our Starbucks.”

I was very relieved to discover that Frank’s Starbucks drink of choice was a grande double-shot latte. I would have been very disappointed if his signature drink had been something girlish like a Caramel Macchiato or, God forbid, something boring like house blend.

“I’d ask you what’s new in your life, but I already know that standing vertical tops the list,” I said.

“I’m never going to complain about not getting enough sleep ever again.”

“Who needs sleep when you’ve been in a coma?” I joked. “Sorry! Are coma jokes okay?”

Frank laughed. “Coma jokes are fine. After your nurse tells you that your mother has been applying ointment to your ass to prevent bedsores, nothing is sacred.”

“I know the feeling. My mother would jump at the opportunity to spread anti-bedsore ointment on my ass. Are you by any chance Italian?”

“Half. My mother’s from Merano, but my dad’s German. Was German, he passed away a few years ago.”

“Mine too. Dead, not German. I’m one hundred percent Sicilian. But we have no links to the Mafia, even though my cousin Vito has connections”—and when I said connections I actually put the word in finger quotes—“so I might be able to put a hit on the taxi driver who hit you.”

“No need, he died in the crash.”

I had a mental image of one of those
New Yorker
cartoons (which is very odd because it’s a well-known fact that no one reads
The New Yorker
beyond the front cover) where a slightly-fleshed-out stick figure opens its mouth and inserts its foot. I was that stick figure and my mouth was stuffed with an Adidas Samba.

“I’m really sorry,” I said in my most serious of serious voices. “I had no idea.”

Frank started laughing. Perhaps inappropriate laughter was a coping mechanism. “More coma humor! The driver was fine, not a scratch on him. Though he might need some ointment on his ass by now; he’s been in Rikers Island for two months, convicted of reckless vehicular endangerment or something like that.”

“Well, good! If taxi drivers can’t be put away for not using deodorant in August, at least they can be put away for reckless driving.”

“Hear, hear!”

We clinked our Starbucks cups and shared some more basic information. Frank’s full name was Frank Anthony Gunnerson, which meant he grew up with the unfortunate initials of F.A.G., a fact that did not go unnoticed by his classmates while he was growing up in North Dakota. “Until this day I have a fear of schoolyards,” he confided.

“How’d you wind up in New York?” I asked. “Was it the typical ‘gay-boy-needs-to-surround-himself-with-other-gay-boys’-syndrome?”

“Not at first. I got a scholarship to New York University and fell in love with everything the city had to offer. The whole experience was a revelation. I don’t even like to think about the person I would’ve become had I gone to my number-two choice.”

“Which was?”

“North Dakota School of Dentistry. I was going to be a dentist like my brother.”

“Get out! My brother’s a dentist!”

So many similarities. A mother with questionable sanity, a brother with a dental drill, what else could we have in common?

“Does any relative have a dachshund?”

“My sister’s got a chihuahua.” Close enough.

Just when I didn’t think the conversation could get simpler or more spontaneous, we started talking about Patti LuPone and how we both wished we knew how to write a musical (instead of just criticizing them like every other gay man) so Patti could create another original musical theater wet dream like her portrayals of Eva Peron and Mama Rose. We thought she’d make a great queen of some sort, perhaps Queen Elizabeth without the alpha forehead or Katharine of Aragon, King Henry VIII’s first wife, since Patti could once again tap into her Spanish side, or even Queen Latifah since we decided Patti could do anything onstage if Patti really wanted to. We were laughing so hard I didn’t even notice right away that Frank’s hand was resting on mine. I think we both noticed it at the same time, but neither of us flinched. Until Jack walked through the door.

Reflex took over and I pulled my hand away just as Jack sauntered up to our table.

“When you said ‘Let’s go to our Starbucks’ I knew exactly which one you meant,” Jack said.

I was just like Frank’s mother—unable to master technology! I must have hit the wrong button and instead of sending Jack to voice mail, I answered the call and he heard me ask Frank to go to our Starbucks. How much else had Jack overheard? The way Jack kissed me, naturally and not as strategy to show Frank that I was taken, I was led to believe he hadn’t heard more. At least that’s what I was going to go with until proven otherwise.

“Hi, I’m Jack. Steven’s boyfriend.”

Or proven a two-timer.

Disappointment had a brief cameo on Frank’s face, but was then replaced by dignity. “I’m Frank. An old friend of Steven’s.”

I watched Frank and Jack shake hands and I couldn’t believe that our reunion was being ruined. I wanted to scream, but as usual I kept silent. I didn’t want to cause a scene or make anyone uncomfortable, which was an idiotic thought since Frank and I were already uncomfortable, so basically I was just saving Jack from discomfort. Maybe since being gay usually puts me in the minority I had forgotten that majority rules, and if the two of us were awkward the third party should have awkwardness thrust upon him as well. Then again, maybe I was just a pussyboy.

Frank stood up and extended his hand to me. I took it and welcomed the warm flesh, which did not prepare me for the cold good-bye. “It was great to see you again, Steven. Take care.”

Jack was jabbering about something, while I struggled with the urge to run after Frank. I was paralyzed, but with what—fear? Was I so conditioned to think that every relationship will end up badly that I was frightened to run after the man of my dreams, the gay sleeping beauty who’d awakened from his coma to walk back into my life? Had I become that much of a robot that I was willing to let the possibility of true love just walk out the door? Was I going to end all my sentences with question marks, but refuse to answer any life questions?

“I have to go to the bathroom.” And off I ran.

The porcelain tiles seemed to be closing in tighter around me and the coffee beans in the Starbucks diorama appeared to be swirling around my head. I took a few deep breaths and caught my reflection in the mirror, but quickly turned away. I couldn’t even look at myself. I knew I was acting like a child, but I wasn’t exactly sure why. So I did something childish and called my best friend for help. Flynn’s voice message said he would be out of the office all day without access to voice mail, so I called Lindsay, an even more childish thing to do.

“Are you riding Aiden’s dick right now?” Lindsay hyperventilated.

Aiden! I had totally forgotten about my guest appearance on
Fucking with a Porn Star.
I filled Lindsay in on what had happened, but he couldn’t see above his waist.

“Step away from the Starbucks, Steven, and go get fucked!” Lindsay ordered.

“I just let Frank walk away!”

Lindsay totally ignored me. “Just go get fucked! By a dick, not an asshole like Jack.”

“Lindsay, please, I need advice.”

“That is my advice! Forget about asshole and coma boy and all the uncertainty surrounding them and go to Aiden’s hotel suite where you know what you’re going to get. The fuck of your life!! No uncertainty, expectations fulfilled, ass full of dick, it’s all good, my friend.”

I tried to get Lindsay to focus on the problem at hand. “Why am I so confused?”

“Because you’re like every other citizen in the United States of Gaymerica, you’re creating drama where there is none because you spent a lifetime feeling like an outsider and now you want to make up for lost time and constantly be in the spotlight. Not everyone can be Meredith Baxter-Birney and have above-the-title billing! Some of us have to realize that no matter how important we think we are, Barbara Walters is never going to call us up and invite us to be one of her Ten Most Intriguing People of the Year. And I should know, I’ve been waiting for that lisping bitch to call me since the fiasco at Lillehammer and my phone has yet to ring! Am I making myself clear, Steven?”

Not really. “Well, sort of.”

“I know you crave a life filled with soap opera twists and twirls.”

He was right. “That’s not entirely true.”

“It is too! And by thinking it you create it.”