Men Who Love Men (29 page)

I
t feels good being back in Boston, with all its hustle and bustle. I’ve stopped here on my way back to Provincetown, figuring an infusion of city life is just what I need.

“And maybe a new look, too,” I say to myself as I walk along Newbury Street, my gaze bouncing from boy to boy, each and every one them
stylin’
, as they say. Good hair, hip clothes, accessorized with BlackBerries and iPods. I determine that some new clothes and accessories are the order of the day.

I pop in to see the stylist who used to cut my hair when I lived in the city. “Sweetie,” Pierre says, taking a good look at me up and down. “You still look like you did when you left Boston. How many years ago was that now?”

“Never mind counting. Just work your magic.”

Pierre gives me one of those new faux-hawks, kind of like a Mohawk without the buzzcut. He cuts my hair closer on the sides while gelling and pushing the top into a raised line across the center of my scalp.

“Whaddya think?” he asks, turning the chair so I can face the mirror.

I’m not quite sure, but lots of the guys on Newbury Street were sporting this do. I give Pierre the thumbs up.

After that, I hit a couple of shops, buying myself some new clothes. I stop in at all my favorites at the Copley Place Mall. It’s just what every lonely hearted girl needs as a pick-me-up: a fresh wardrobe for fall. I buy whatever I see on the mannequins. At Abercrombie, I snatch up a bunch of T-shirts with numbers on the chest (I’ve heard “9” subliminally draws attention). At Banana Republic, I choose a couple of those new striped, collared, short-sleeved shirts that I’ve seen guys wearing, half-tucked into their jeans and collar up. I pick out a lime green and a powder blue.

“Great choices,” says the clerk as he rings me up. He’s a very young, pimply faced boy wearing a similar shirt, except his is pink.

“Thanks,” I say, quite certain that he’s flirting with me. I practically dance out of the shop.

I ignore the obvious: that everyone else looking at the same shirts is a good ten years younger than I am.

Stuffing my bundles into the back of my Jeep, I look around at the city. Once, this was my life. This was home. This is where I came when I was young and naïve. This is where I came of age, where I finally found the life I’d dreamed about in my childhood bed.

But Boston is no longer home. I start the ignition. It’s time to head back to Provincetown.

I’ve been gone three days. Both Jeff and Lloyd have left a couple of messages on my cell, telling me whenever I want to come home, they’ll be ready to talk. I feel like a selfish brat running out like this, especially with their wedding coming up in less than two weeks. They shouldn’t be worrying about me; they should be gearing up for their big day.

When I pull into the driveway of the guesthouse, there’s a Land Rover parked in my usual spot. I glance up at the porch and spot a couple of guys heading back down the steps.

I’m quite surprised to see that it’s Evan and Curt.

“Hey,” I call out the window.

“Hey,” they each call back.

I park the Jeep on the side of the Land Rover and hop out. “What’s up?” I ask.

Evan smiles. “We were dropping off our number in New York.”

Curt’s eyes twinkle. “In case you ever want to come to visit us.”

I’m actually touched. “Thanks,” I say. “You heading back to the city?”

They nod. “I wish we didn’t have to,” Evan says. “You are very lucky to live here full-time, Henry, you know that?”

“I suppose I am.” I smile. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“Hey,” Evan says, his eyes finding mine. “You have time for a quick walk? We were thinking of taking a stroll on the beach before we get on the road.”

“Sure,” I say, feeling far more generous toward him than I did a few days before. “But it’s not raining,” I add, a small smile on my face.

Evan smiles back at me. “We’ll have to do that another time.”

We cross the street and trudge through some straggly sea grass to reach the east end beach. Except for a flock of gulls, we’re the only ones out here.

“It never fails to amaze me how fast the town empties out after Labor Day,” I say.

“There are many rhythms of life in Provincetown,” Evan observes, “and it is the collective dance that makes this place what it is.”

I laugh. “That’s rather poetic.”

“Evan’s a poet,” Curt says, “and doesn’t know it.”

We all laugh. “My first six years in Provincetown were spent as the classic summer gay resident,” Evan says. “Friends and I would rent a house from Memorial Day to Labor Day. We managed to spend most weekends here, and usually a couple of solid weeks in August. They were heady, boisterous days. I was in my early twenties and full of spunk.”

I look off at the water. “Well, I was a kind of Johnny-come-lately to the party, but I had a few years of spunk myself.”

“I bet you did,” Curt says, winking.

Evan seems lost in a world of his own. “Back in those days, we didn’t give much thought as to what the winter must be like here. After all, didn’t Tea Dance shut down in September?”

We all laugh again, then I look rather seriously at Evan. “And now you’d like to experience life here year-round.”

He nods. “I’d like to quit my job like you did, Henry, and find a way to make a living here.”

“A romantic dream,” Curt says. “But if we could do it, we would.”

“Maybe I’m just caught up in the memory of those glorious summer days when I was just a young kid full of dreams,” Evan says. “I look back on that time with a great deal of warmth and nostalgia. I know it seems frivolous, but those days were very special.”

“Of course they were,” I tell him.

Evan seems buoyed by my affirmation. “You know, I had a show at my gallery not long ago featuring the work of some of the great artists of Provincetown. We did a whole history of the vibrant arts scene here from the 1940s through the 1960s. But you know what I realized?”

“Tell me.”

“That my experience was every bit as genuine and valuable as the heyday of the Abstract Expressionists or the counter-culture days of Andy Warhol. I really believe this. It was the early 90s, and gay culture was just starting to step out loudly and proudly, and I was part of that fresh new energy.”

“Yeah,” I say, “Jeff writes about that period in
The Boys of Summer
…”

Evan shakes his head. “Yeah, but unlike your friend Jeff, I wasn’t interested in anything beyond just having a good time. I wasn’t part of any literary or intellectual crowd back then. My friends were just a bunch of partiers. I remember once feeling a bit hedonistic and superficial, and I expressed some embarrassment when I ran into an older guy I admired a great deal. He’d just spent his evening among painters and poets having lots of fascinating cultural conversation. Meanwhile, I was still slightly buzzed from a Foam Party at the Crown and Anchor with a bunch of house boys and rowdy tourists.”

“Hey,” I tell him. “That was who you were then.”

“Exactly! And this is what my older friend told me. He said, ‘Dawling’—he was from the Bronx and always pronounced ‘darling’ as ‘dawling’—‘what you experienced tonight was every bit as much of a Provincetown experience as mine was. Be glad you’re a part of it.’”

“It’s true,” I say. “I remember those Foam Parties myself, and sleeping in until noon, stirring to life gradually as the sun pushed through my shades, and the heat in the room became unbearable.”

Curt is smiling. “There was a certain lazy, glorious rhythm to those days, wasn’t there? Dragging our sleepy heads to the beach, where we’d bake until it was time for Tea. Then came After Tea, remember that?”

I’m grinning ear to ear. “Yeah, I loved After Tea. It just kept the party going.”

“Then, of course,” Evan adds, “that was followed by dinner and a nap before sprucing up for the bar. Summer Camp at the Crown—remember that? And the Love Shack!”

“And finally, pizza among the throngs on the steps of Spiritus,” I say.

“Some things, thankfully, never change,” Curt says.

“But
we
do.” Evan has stopped walking. He looks from me to Curt, then back to me again. “We’re older now, and other things matter more now. Tricking, dancing, sleeping late—there’s more to Provincetown than all that, as wonderful as it was.”

“I agree,” I tell him.

“Now it’s about relationships. It’s about finding a sense of home and family.” He looks out over the water. “It’s about being who you are in a place that allows you unlimited possibilities.”

I smile. “Sometimes I’ve worried that Provincetown limits my possibilities. Thanks for reminding me how wrong that is.”

Evan smiles. “Will you see us again, Henry?”

I look from him to Curt, not sure what to say.

Evan fills in the silence. “I’ve felt badly ever since our phone conversation,” he tells me. “I don’t want you to think I was just playing you.”

“It means a lot to hear you say that,” I reply. “I’ve been losing faith with people lately. Maybe I’ve been a little premature in my judgments.”

“Give us a chance,” Evan says, drawing close.

He kisses me. Deep, full. Our lips part and I taste his tongue. Curt is beside me now, and I kiss him, too.

“When can you come to New York?” Evan asks.

“I…I don’t know.”

“We’d like you to visit us,” Curt offers.

“I…I like you guys. I just don’t know what I want our friendship to be.”

Evan nods. “That’s okay. We can just see what happens.”

“At the very least,” I say, “I’d like to get to know you both better.’

“Well,” Evan says, “we’ll be back at Halloween. It’s so much fun here on Halloween. We’d love to see you again then.”

I nod. “I’m open to the possibility.”

Evan smiles. “That’s all we can ask.”

We head back up to the guesthouse. We kiss again, all three of us. Then they get into their car and drive out of town.

For a moment I miss them terribly.

I take a deep breath, collecting my things out of my Jeep. Did I really mean what I just said? That I was “open to the possibility”? What the hell does that mean? The possibility of exactly
what
? Having sex with them again? Moving into a three-way dating situation with them? Could I do that? Would I
want
it?

Inside the guesthouse, Lloyd is at the front desk. He says nothing when I enter. He just walks over to me and gives me a tight bear hug. I hug him back. Over his shoulder I notice a young guy with a mop of black curls hauling a basket of laundry down into the basement.

“Who’s he?” I ask.

Lloyd smiles wryly. “Our new houseboy.”

“Lloyd, you didn’t need to fire Luke over me.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t fire him. He quit.”

I sigh. “It’s probably for the best.”

Lloyd nods. “Henry, I want you to know, if I’d been aware of what happened, I would never have done anything with—”

I hold my hand up to stop him. “I know.” I make sure the new houseboy, whatever his name, is safely down the stairs and out of earshot. “Does Jeff know what happened with you and Luke?”

Lloyd nods. “Of course. I told him.”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

He sighs. Suddenly I see the heaviness in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders. “He didn’t need to say anything. I saw the hurt quite plain. He told me he wanted a few days to think.” He closes his eyes. “I haven’t seen him since.”

“Holy fuck,” I say, sitting down hard in a chair.

Lloyd sits opposite me. “I don’t understand it fully. I mean, we have an open relationship. We both, from time to time, have outside connections…”

“This is hardly outside, Lloyd,” I say, anger starting to tighten my throat again. “This was right here in the guesthouse.”

Lloyd stands up, agitated. “I know! It was wrong! It was stupid and inappropriate!” He paces over to the desk then turns and walks back toward me. “But I don’t get Jeff’s reaction. It’s far more intense than I would have expected.”

I stand up and face him. “And you have no clue why?”

“If you have some idea,” he says to me, “I’d like to hear it.”

“For a bright man, you can be incredible dense,” I say, stunned that I can use such a word to describe Lloyd Griffith, my hero, my inspiration. “In less than two weeks you’re going to be getting married. You can’t appreciate how hearing about you and Luke made Jeff feel?”

“I didn’t realize it would be so…”

“Come on, Lloyd. Jeff has been wanting to make your wedding really, really special, and so he’s been refraining from any—what did you call them?—‘outside
connections
.’ It hasn’t been easy for him. He turned down Luke himself!”

Lloyd looks at me with interest. It’s clear he didn’t know that little detail.

“It’s true,” I say. “Luke came on to him. But Jeff said no. Can you believe it? Jeff O’Brien! Mr. I-Can’t-Help-Myself-Around-Cute-Boys. He turned him down! I have to tell you, I have gained a whole new measure of respect for Jeff because of this attitude.”

“I didn’t know he was feeling that way,” Lloyd says, his hand on his forehead. “He never shared this with me.”

“He didn’t want to say anything to you. He didn’t want you to feel pressured to act the same.”

Lloyd gives me a dry little laugh. “Then if that’s the case, then isn’t he being a little hypocritical to walk out?”

“Since when has Jeff ever been rational when it came to affairs of the heart?” I sigh. “Still, hypocritical or not, he’s hurt.” I look at Lloyd intently. “Where is he, any idea?”

“I suspect he’s in Boston. Maybe with Melissa and Rose. I’ve been trying to honor his privacy and not call around looking for him. I know he’s been talking with Ann Marie, because I got word from her that he’s okay—but she hasn’t shared where he is.”

“Oh, man.” I run my hands through my new faux-hawk, and realize Lloyd hasn’t said a word about it. I suppose there hasn’t been a moment for any small talk. “What does this mean for the wedding? It’s not far off.”

Lloyd looks suddenly as if he might cry. “I don’t know. We were supposed to be making final plans with the caterer today…” He covers his face with his hands. “I just wish he’d come back so we could talk.”