Men Who Love Men (20 page)

“Okay, and your point
is
?”

“I’m
getting
to it, Henry. God, we really have lost all sense of patience!” He shakes his head. “Today,
Oz
can be had for $19.95. Or less, if you just rent. Any old day or any old night. No waiting. Get it right now. Blockbuster stands ready, ruby slippers and all.”

“I still don’t get your point.”

“Henry, instant gratification is all well and good. I love being able to download songs on iTunes. But all this accessibility and convenience seems to symbolize something that we’ve lost.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, indulging him.

“It’s something that changed in my adolescence, when the whole world was changing along with me. I remember the giddy simplicity of a Pac-Man game in a pizza joint, of pinball machines and the Good Humor man. I remember the odd futuristic look television antennas gave to our roofs. I remember playing a favorite record over and over until the needle wore down. I remember the NBC peacock—when the words ‘in living color’ signaled some great event was about to occur.”

“Gosh, you really
are
old,” I tease him.

“Then listen to your elders, Henry,” Jeff says, and he almost sounds serious. “We can teach you a few things.”

“Okay, okay, I’m listening.”

“Today every whim can be immediately gratified,” Jeff continues. “Today stores and books and TV shows are designed to grab you, wow you, give you everything you ever wanted in one fell swoop. Technology has made waiting unnecessary.” He leans in to look at me. “So maybe we’ve forgotten little qualities like patience. That all good things come to he who waits.”

“Thank you, Confucius.”

“Hey, we used to take out personal ads in newspapers to meet guys. Now we’ve got Manhunt and MySpace and instant messages.”

I suddenly think of Doug, and the crazy excitement of waiting to see if he’d call me after I responded to his ad.

Jeff’s lost in his reverie. “Remember that old ketchup commercial that used Carly Simon’s song?
Anticipation…is keeping me waiting
.” He smiles as he sings the line, dragging out the syllables. “I miss waiting for good things, Henry. Anticipation makes us appreciate them even more. I would hold onto that final scene of
The Wizard of Oz
because I knew it was precious. I knew I wouldn’t see it again for a whole year. Until then, it would live only in my memories.”

I wait to see if he’s finished. He’s not.

“You know, today I own
Oz
on DVD. The extras are fun, but the movie…There it is at a switch of a button. Where’s the excitement in that?” Jeff makes a face. “Watching it, I know where all the commercials are supposed to be—but aren’t. I kind of miss those little blurbs for Dolly Madison cupcakes, when I’d run to the bathroom or grab another bottle of Coke from the fridge. Now I can just hit pause and take a phone call, or rewind back, or fast forward through the Lion’s boring ‘King of the Forest’ scene. Watching my own copy of
The Wizard of
Oz just isn’t the same as watching it on network television when I was a kid back in the 1970s. The world has moved on since then, and there’s no need to wait. Not for anything. Not even for
Oz
.”

He looks over at me.

“Damn,” he says, more to himself than to me, “that’s going to be one fine essay.”

“Jeff,” I tell him, “I get your point. The waiting will make finding Mr. Right even more special. But that doesn’t mean I’m not fucking
tired
of waiting. You can’t deny that when you were a kid, you grew very impatient waiting for
Oz
to be back on.”

“But you’re missing
another
point, Henry.” He goes nose-to-nose with me. “The waiting isn’t just about making the experience more special. It’s also there to get you
ready
for it.” He shrugs. “Are you ready, Henry? Really?”

I start to rise to my own defense, to insist that of
course
I’m ready—when my cell phone rings. I try to ignore it, but there it is between us, clipped to my belt and screeching for attention.

“Do you want to get that?” Jeff asks.

I look down at the caller ID. It’s a local number but not one I recognize at first.

“No,” I tell Jeff, not wanting to interrupt our conversation. But even as I say the word I realize who’s calling. “Oh, fuck,” I say. “It’s Gale.”

“Get it if you want,” Jeff says.

I bring the phone to my ear. “Hello!”

“Henry, it’s Gale.”

“Hey.”

“I’ve been meaning to call. Do you have plans tonight?”

My eyes find Jeff’s.

“Go ahead,” Jeff whispers kindly.

I feel rotten backing out of my plans with Jeff. But I tell Gale, “No, I don’t have any plans.”

I look at Jeff with pleading eyes.
Forgive me?
He just smiles and nods.

“Great,” Gale is saying. “I’d love to cook you dinner at my place. Want to come by at seven?”

“Sure.”

“Terrific. See you then.”

I snap the phone shut.

“Jeff, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, buddy.”

I’m stunned that he called. I can feel a smile pushing at the edges of my cheeks. “Maybe ‘I’ll call you’ isn’t always a lie,” I say.

Jeff puts his arm around my shoulder and starts leading me back to the house. I still feel bad about canceling our plans. Jeff’s down about J. R., and here I am, selfish Henry, bailing on him for some guy…

“Stop fretting,” Jeff tells me.

“How do you know I’m fretting?”

“We’re sisters, Henry, and sisters know such things.” He looks over at me as we reach the front steps. “I’m fine. Really I am.”

“J. R. adores you,” I tell him. “This is just a phase.”

“I know that.” He cocks his head at me. “Can the same be said of you, Henry? Is all this angst you’re going through just a phase as well?”

I give him a little smile. “Maybe Gale’s call is a sign that things are changing. The anticipation is over, and it’s time for a little gratification.”

Jeff frowns, as if that wasn’t the response he was hoping to hear from me. He just shrugs, and we head inside.

Well, if Jeff isn’t convinced that the long wait is over, neither am I. Not by a long shot. In fact, I refuse to hope. Hope has been my downfall. I am determined to get through my date tonight with Gale without letting even the tiniest sliver of hope wedge itself into my brain.

Somehow, however, I know I won’t be very successful at that.

“H
ave another piece?”

Gale has made the most luscious key lime pie I’ve ever eaten. Just the right among of tang and just the right amount of sweet, kind of a metaphor for how I prefer my men. I’ve already had one slice of this scrumptious pie, which came on top of an incredibly fabulous meal of rosemary-infused roasted vegetables sprinkled with baby peas. So I beg off from having any more dessert, insisting that my appetite has been fully sated.

Actually, I lie.

My stomach might be satisfied, but other urges are still waiting to be fed. All throughout the meal, Gale has been jumping up and down from his place at the table to serve me more helpings or to refill my wine glass. Each time, his well-rounded thighs, encased in form-fitting blue jeans, have come perilously close to my face. At one point, as he bent over to retrieve a napkin that had fallen, his shapely round butt was positioned not six inches from my lips. It was all I could do to restrain myself from wrestling him down to the floor right there and then.

“More wine?” Gale asks.

I nod. I’ve got a nice little buzz. Might as well keep it going.

Gale tips the bottle and fills my glass of rosé back to the brim. We clink glasses and sip.

Funny how fast one’s mood can change. How depressed I was this morning. Now, sitting across from Gale, I find myself laughing easily, riding my chair on its two back legs, playfully catapulting peas at him with my spoon.

“Henry,” Gale tells me, “I like you. I really do.”

I smirk. “So how come you waited so long to call me?”

He takes another sip of his wine. “You could’ve called me.”

“You said
you
would call.”

Gale shrugs. “I wanted to, several times. But I…”

I look over at him. He’s looking past me, out the window. For a moment only the sound of crickets fills the room.

“But you what?” I prod.

He closes his eyes once, then opens them again, looking directly at me. “It’s been a long time since I let myself like anyone.”

I nod. “I understand. I’ve been burned in love myself.”

“I’m cautious.” Gale’s face has turned serious. “When I fall in love, it will be forever.”

There’s that intensity again, and it makes me a little nervous. I try to lighten the mood by humming the song with the same lyrics. “Didn’t Natalie Cole do a cover of her father’s rendition of that?”

“Possibly. Certainly the sentiment is worth singing about.” Gale finishes the wine in his glass. “I’m looking for the real thing. Are you, Henry?”

“Of course.”

“Really?”

I laugh. “Gale, I have spent more than a year now searching for Mr. Right. I have driven my friends—and myself—crazy with the pursuit. I am very tired of being alone.”

“So am I.”

He lifts the wine bottle to pour me some more, but I put my hand over the glass. I’m not even halfway finished with what I already have. So he refills his own glass and takes a long sip.

“I am absolutely ready to fall in love,” he tells me. “But the person I fall in love with has to really fall in love with me, too. It has to be on the same level, with exactly the same kind of feeling.”

“That’s what we all want,” I tell him. “But truthfully, you can’t really control that.”

“Oh, yes, you can.” Gale is looking at me fiercely. “You can control whatever you want in this life, so long as you set your mind to it.”

“That’s a pretty sweeping statement.”

“It’s what I believe.”

I look over at him. Even with his aggressive, confident posturing, there’s something about Gale that’s terribly vulnerable, and I immediately feel for him. What heartache has he experienced that would make him so desperate now for control? What has driven him to sculpt his body so hard and taut, to mouth such fierce platitudes about life and love?

“You haven’t been out for very long,” I say, remembering his comment from our last date.

“No, not really.” He seems to reconsider the statement. “Well, it’s been long enough to figure a few things out. Men are not like women. Having relationships with men is far more difficult, both of us fighting for our instinctive place at the top.”

I smile. “I sometimes think gay life is overrun with bottoms.”

Gale shakes his head, not sharing—or perhaps not getting—my humor. “I don’t mean just sexually,” he says. “I mean the fact that men have been acclimated to feel they are the superior sex, and so when two men come together, it’s like two rams butting horns, or two tomcats fighting for their territory. One eventually needs to be sublimated to the other.”

I make a face. “I don’t think it always has to be such a struggle.”

“So why haven’t you found a lasting boyfriend, Henry?”

Gale stands and begins clearing the plates off the table. I take a sip of my wine as I ponder his question. Could that be it? Is that the reason I’m still single? Because I’ve been unwilling to surrender my alpha male status to another man, or because none of my boyfriends were willing to give up theirs for me?

“I don’t know,” I say when Gale comes back into the room to scrape the crumbs off the tablecloth. “I’m not sure there’s as much difference between the sexes as you make out. Did you have a lot of relationships with women?”

“No,” Gale says.

“Then how would you know about the difference?”

“Because I do.” He disappears into the kitchen with the last of our dirty plates.

I have to laugh. Jeff and Lloyd say that
I’m
an absolutist—that too often I see the world in just blacks and whites without any grays. Gale makes me seem like a real moderate in comparison. This is a guy who’s set in his opinions, and no amount of discussion is going to move him.

Still, I’m drawn to him. Maybe it’s the fear that’s so obviously behind his rigidity.
He’s been hurt
, I tell myself.
He’s just as scared to trust and to hope as I am. Maybe together we can find our way back…

I stand up, waiting for Gale to return to the room. When he does, I block his passage, taking him by surprise and kissing him. At first he’s hard, defensive—but then he melts in my arms and starts kissing me back.

I run my hands down his firm lats to his hard round butt. “I think we left a few things unfinished last time,” I purr into his ear.

His lips find mine again. Damn, he’s a good kisser. I let my hands explore his body, from his butt to his shoulders to his thick silky hair.

“No whisker burn with you,” I say approvingly, breaking our kiss and running my hands over his smooth cheeks.

He pulls away gently. “Let’s go slow,” he says.

“Fine. So long as we don’t stop.”

I try to smile at him but Gale avoids my eyes. He’s nervous, I realize. And suddenly I wonder:
Has Gale never had sex?

Is that the source of his fear?

“We’ll go as slow as you want,” I tell him, tracing the outlines of his eyes and his nose as we stand no more than an inch apart.

Gale leads me by the hand over to his mattress on the floor. This time the place is more orderly. The books that had been scattered around on my last visit are now neatly stacked against the wall. But the titles on their bindings are still visible:
The Male Couple. Gay Men and Sex. What Gay Men Really Want. How to Make Love Like You Mean It.

We begin kissing again, sitting up. I unbutton Gale’s short-sleeved plaid shirt, reaching inside to run my hands over the most beautifully shaped pecs I have ever seen. And the most exquisite nipples: as big as quarters with beautiful, lace-like areolas. I reach down and lick them each in turn. Gale shudders against me. I’m pleased. I like finding other nipple-sensitive men.

With trembling fingers, Gale undoes the buttons on my own shirt, and, almost in imitation, runs his hands along my chest. He moves his face close to kiss my nipples. Reveling in the electric sensations, I drop my own face down into his hair, inhaling his sweet, clean fragrance.

We resume kissing. My hands are wandering now, up and down Gale’s smooth, hard back. I’m anxious to get his pants off, but whenever I start to move around to his crotch he stiffens, shifts, and redirects me elsewhere.
He’s scared
, I tell myself.
I need to go slow
.

But it’s difficult. The longer we sit here kissing like this, the more urgent my lust becomes. I want him naked. I wrap my arms around him tightly and knock him over onto his side, so we’re lying down on the mattress, facing each other. We continue kissing. I move my hands back to his butt, and once more attempt to bring them around to his front.

“Don’t,” Gale whispers.

“It will be okay,” I tell him. “Trust me.”

“No,” Gale says, and sits up.

“What’s wrong?” I sit up beside him, my arm around his shoulders. “I like you, Gale. I like you a lot. We’re looking for the same thing, you and I. This wouldn’t be just a one-night stand.”

“I can’t,” he says in a small voice.

“Why not?”

He turns to face me. “Because I’ve never done it before.”

I cup his face in his hands. “I suspected as much. That’s okay, man. I don’t expect anything from you. I’d be honored to be your first.”

Gale stands up, moving across the room away from me. “I just can’t. Not yet.”

I let out a sigh.

“Believe me, Henry,” Gale says. “I’d like nothing more for you to be my first. And when that time comes, maybe, if you’re still interested—”

“But how do you know when that time has come?” I ask, looking up at him. “How do you know it’s not now?”

“This is only our second date,” he tells me.

I laugh. “So what’s the magic number? Five? Six? Twenty?”

I see his face become hard. “You don’t understand.”

“Of course I do.” I get to my feet and approach him, taking his hands in mine. “Let’s just sit together then. Talk. Kiss a little.”

Gale’s silent.

I reach in and kiss him lightly on the lips. “If I went too fast, I’m sorry.”

“We haven’t even done anything together yet,” he says. “Like go on a hike, or go to a movie. How can we have sex before any of that?”

“Okay. So let’s plan to do something.”

He looks at me as if he’s testing me. “Like what?”

“Like…” I consider our options. “We said we were going to go see Maggie Cassella, the lesbian comic. We could do that and have dinner.”

“I’m not sure I like lesbian comics.”

“I know, you said that. But you’ll like Maggie. She’s very funny. And we’ve only got a short time left, because most of the shows end this week.”

“All right.”

“Good.” I take his hands again. “So let’s kiss a little more.”

“No.” Gale maneuvers away from me, blowing out the candle that had been burning in the middle of the table. “I think I need to be alone now.”

“Gale,” I say. “This is what happened last time. If we’re going to get to know each other…”

“Then we need to respect each other,” he says, facing me. “And right now, Henry, I’m asking that you respect the fact that I’d like to be alone.”

What else is there to say? “Okay,” I tell him. “Thanks for dinner.”

I turn to leave, but Gale stops me.

“I like you, too, Henry. Very much.”

I give him a wan smile. “So if we’re going to respect each other, I hope you’ll understand that I don’t do well with these abrupt dismissals.”

“I’m sorry, Henry.” His face suddenly softens, and his eyes are moist with tears. “I’m really sorry.”

We embrace. I think Gale might cry, but he doesn’t. He just clings to me. Again I’m left to wonder just what heartache this poor guy has been through.

“I’ll call you,” I say into his ear, taking the power this time. “In fact, I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll make a date.”

Gale pulls back to look me in the eyes. He’s composed himself. “Great,” he says. “I look forward to it.”

We exchange one last, brief kiss and I head out down his stairs.

Outside, the crickets are keeping a loud and lively chorus. I look up at the sky, dark purple, scattered with stars.

I head back toward Commercial Street, where the tranquility is broken by garish orange lights and the loud laughter of tourists on one last summer fling. I can’t believe that my date with Gale has turned out exactly like the last one—with me left sexually frustrated in a town filled with horny gay men. I make sure I stay far away from the dick dock.

I take a look at my cell phone, which I’d silenced while at Gale’s. I’m hoping to see that Shane called, but no. No new messages. I consider calling him. He’s here in town somewhere. I’m certain that if I went out dancing tonight, to the A House or maybe Purgatory, I’d find him. I decide I should try. No one is more fun on a dance floor than Shane. I wonder if he’s brought along any of his toys, like water pistols or light wands.

I’m smiling as I think of Shane, heading through the crowds on Commercial Street. No one ever understood us being together. “You went out with
him?”
Joey had asked arrogantly when I showed him a picture, clearly looking down on Shane for not having ripped abs and defined pecs. I admit that when Joey asked, I was a little embarrassed—Shane was also wearing a tiara in the photo. It was from some circuit party several years ago; who can even remember which one anymore? But now, thinking back, I’m ashamed of my embarrassment. I should have responded proudly, “Yes, I went out with him! And Shane loved me! Unlike you, you self-centered, lying bastard!”

I almost laugh out loud. It’s not Joey’s picture I should keep taped up at work. I should have
Shane
up there, reminding me of the one relationship in my life where I was always sure of how the other guy felt about me.

“Henry.”

I stop. Someone in the crowd has just called my name.

It’s impossible to spot who it is. There are hundreds of people on the street now, in that busy block between Spiritus Pizza and Masonic Place. Could it have been Shane? I crane my neck looking around.

“Henry!”

The voice is behind me. I turn.

“Shane?”

But it’s Martin.

“Oh,” I say. “Hey.”