Where The Boys Are (13 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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Brrrrrnnng. Dorchester.
“I
mean
it, Henry. He’s from Dorchester, right? I tell you, you’re asking for trouble.
Brrrrrnnng.
This is a new one. It’s Shane. CircuitBoiUS. Get
my email?
I
type back:
Yes. I’m still thinking.
TIME’S RUNNING OUT,
Shane types back.
“I’m telling you, Henry, stay away from him.”
Another message from Shane:
BTW, I saw what room you were in a minute ago. Bad Boy : -)
How the fuck had he seen me?
I was in the Escorts room for just a few
seconds.
Shane must have me on his buddy list. What is he, a fucking stalker?
“Henry, are you
listening
to me?” Brent’s sounding very impatient.
“Yes, Brent, I am.” I type back an explanation to Shane, saying I’d
just
gone in there to check it out, to see what was up.
“He’s a
loser,
Henry,” Brent’s saying. “Have I ever steered you wrong?
“Yes. Many times. Especially when you’re interested in the guy yourself.”
I set my computer to MUTE. No use letting Brent know if I
do
end up meeting Mr. LeanMusl. I’ve just opened his pic, and he doesn’t look half bad. Nice shoulders, sculpted pecs ...
“Trust
me. He is
not
someone I’m interested in.” Brent laughs. “However,
speaking
of interests of mine, who’s this
Anthony
guy who’s living with Jeff?”
How the fuck Brent finds out these things amazes me. The South End is like goddamn Mayberry, for God’s sake. Everybody seems to know everybody else’s business. “Okay, Brent.
How
do you know about Anthony?”
Brent twitters. “I met him this morning at the T station. I was on my way to work. I saw this hottie sitting there, and so naturally I struck up a conversation.”
I think it odd that Anthony was on the T that early in the morning. He must have headed out as soon as Jeff left for Provincetown. “Where was he going?” I ask, curious now myself.
“South Station. At least, that’s where he got off.”
A thought strikes me. Jeff said Anthony had taken his backpack with him. Maybe he was heading back to New York. Maybe he was skipping out on Jeff. At South Station. He could’ve hopped on a bus....
No
. I’m not going to go there. I am
not
going to rush to call Jeff and get all enmeshed in this. If it turns out that Anthony doesn’t return, I’ll give Jeff the information. Of course, Jeff will be pissed at me for not telling him sooner, but I’ll just have to deal with that.
“So who
is
he?” Brent’s insisting. “He is so cute.”
“Anthony’s cute,” I admit, “but a total R. C.”
“Oh. Well, like I always say, if they can’t move on the dance floor, they can’t move in bed.” Brent giggles. “Though I’d be willing to give this one a chance to prove my theory wrong. He really is cute.”
“I’m noticing a pattern here, Brent. First Lloyd, now Anthony. Do you go after
any
guy who’s connected with Jeff?”
“Weiner,
I’m
not the one hung up on Jeff O’Brien.”
“Fuck off, Brent.”
I look down at my computer screen. Yes, LeanMuslNBost’s pic is
definitely
hot. But why haven’t I heard back from him? I sent my picture in return. Oh, wait. It’s the old game of “I won’t say you’re cute until you say I’m cute first.” I smile. Okay, I can be a big man. I type in:
Hot pic,
and send it off.
Brent’s back to rambling on about Miami and the boys from New Jersey, giving me their AOL screen names so I can check their profiles. I don’t even bother taking them down. I just wait to hear back from Mr. LeanMusle about
my
pic. But the seconds tick by and there’s no reply.
Maybe he didn’t like it. I feel a knot foolishly grip my stomach. I’ve been meaning to scan a better photo. This one’s a shot from last summer on Fire Island and I had to crop Jeff out, though his arm still dangles over my right shoulder. It’s hard getting a photo that really shows you to best advantage.
And who cares anyway about some stupid AOL fake?
Then I notice Shane had replied to me. With the sound turned off, I hadn’t heard it come in.
Yeah whatever. Look, if u can’t afford the flight to Philly, why not set up a new screen name? HotMuscleEscort. Easy couple hundred bucks.
I don’t respond.
I check to see if LeanMuslNBost got the pic. He did. He opened it a
full five minutes
ago. And now the fucker is signed off. Either he got bumped or he’s a pic collector or ... or—my back stiffens at the thought—he found someone he liked better. Someone
hotter
.
I sign off. AOL can be too much like the bars sometimes.
“Are you
listening
to me?” Brent says, as irritated as a bee in my ear.
“I gotta go. It’s late and I gotta get up early.”
“Yeah, me too. Gotta get our beauty rest. None of us are getting any younger, you know.” He exhales smoke again. “Hey, you going to the Blue Ball in Philly in a couple weeks?”
I pause. “I’m considering it.”
“Well, let me know. We could go down together. Ta-ta!”
I hang up the phone. I sit staring at my computer for several seconds. Then I sign back on under my main account. I click on “Create New Screen Names.” I type one in. HotMuscleEscort. My finger hesitates before hitting “Confirm.” I summon up the courage and do it.
Then a message appears that the name is already taken.
I laugh. “What the fuck was I even thinking?” I say out loud. I’m ready to sign off when I think I’ll just try one other thing ...
MuscleEscort4U.
It comes back
confirmed
.
I sit back in my chair. Wow. I sign on under my new name. I create a new profile and then click my way back into the Escorts chat room.
I forget all about dinner. I don’t sign off until well past midnight.
The Next Day
Jeff
A
nthony’s in the shower. I won’t ask him where he’s been. It’s none of my business. None at all.
“Hey, get down from there,” I shout, clapping my hands.
Mr. Tompkins is trying to eat the flowers Anthony brought me. Sunflowers and day lilies. I move the vase from the coffee table to the top of the TV set and scold Mr. Tompkins. “You already weigh twenty-seven pounds,” I say. “You gotta eat
everything?”
The doorbell sounds. “Yeah?” I call over the intercom.
“It’s Henry.”
I buzz him in. In moments, Henry’s at my door, wiping his feet on the mat. “I’ve got to talk to you,” he says, all serious.
“What about?”
“Don’t be mad at me for last night, Jeff.”
“Whatever.” I stretch, feigning indifference, and flop down on the couch.
Henry takes off his coat and hangs it over a rocking chair. He’s still dressed from work, tweed jacket and striped tie. “I was just preoccupied. I know you were upset about ...” He pauses, making a face. “Who’s that in the shower?”
“Anthony.”
“He came
back?”
I look over at him. “Yeah, he came back. Why do you act so surprised?”
“No—no reason.” Henry sits down opposite me. “Did he stay out all night?”
I nod, flicking on MTV with the remote control. “Yup. Got back about an hour ago.”
It’s now past seven-thirty.
All night and all day
Anthony was out. I hate myself for being upset about it. I have no right to be. I haven’t even known the guy for a
week.
What’s
really
screwy, though, is how much Anthony’s absence bugged me in light of the fact that I’m sure
Lloyd and Eva
have been together every second. How fucked is
that?
I hate myself when I get this way.
“He didn’t say where he’d been?” Henry’s asking.
“Nope. But he brought me those flowers.”
“They’re nice.” Henry smiles. “Well, he is your guest, after all. You don’t want him just coming and going at all hours.”
I look over at him. “That’s right. I can be pissed about
that
, can’t I? It’s not like he’s a roommate or anything. He’s a
guest.”
It’s as if Henry has just given me permission—a rationale—to be angry with Anthony. But somehow I just can’t. I sigh. “No. I just need to let it go.”
Henry nods. “It’s really Lloyd you’re upset about, Jeff.”
“Please, Dr. Freud.” I stretch my legs out, placing my head on the armrest of the couch. “Don’t start.”
“I just don’t like to see you hurting.”
“I’m
fine.”
I raise the volume on the TV set. Madonna’s “Ray of Light” video. “So what do you want to talk to me about?”
Henry seems to struggle. “Jeff, do you remember how—well, remember on New Year’s when—well, when Shane . . .” He grunts. He stands, walks over, takes the remote out of my hand, and lowers the volume. Then he crouches down beside me. “I don’t want to be shouting.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s going on, Henry?”
“I was online last night and—” The shower suddenly shuts off. Henry sighs. “I can’t talk about this with Anthony around.”
My brows knit. “What’s Anthony got to do with it?”
“Nothing.” Henry stands, returning to his chair across the room.
“So tell me later, then. He’s getting ready so we can go to Club Cafe. Come with us.”
Henry just sighs again. I shake my head. Henry can be so petulant at times. What is it
this
time? Some guy he’s developed a crush on and is afraid to tell? Yet again, he comes to me for the answers. It’s like I was telling Lloyd. They all come to me with their troubles, their heartaches. I laugh to myself. How did Javitz
stand
it? All these little boys coming to him with all their little problems?
Just then my own little problem places his hands on my shoulders. “Hey,” Anthony says. He’s emerged from the shower all steamy and glowing. His towel-dried blond hair sticks up at random. Around his waist he’s wrapped a towel. The baby-fine white down across his stomach only helps delineate his abs.
“Hey, Henry,” Anthony says, sitting on the armrest of the couch. He leaves one hand on my shoulder. I move my face so that my nose is close to Anthony’s skin. God, he smells good.
“Hey, Anthony, how’s it been?”
“Shhh,” I command all at once. “Turn up the volume! I want to hear this.”
Henry obeys. It’s a public-service announcement against antigay violence with Judy Shepard, the mother of Matthew Shepard, the gay college kid who was bashed to death a few years ago. I’ve seen it before—an incredibly powerful piece. Kids shouting “Queer!” and “Faggot!” and Mrs. Shepard, unable to hold back her tears, asking people to
think.
“She is so awesome to do this,” Henry says.
I’ve never been gay-bashed. The worst I’ve suffered were the occasional taunts of “fag” in school and now, sometimes, late at night, coming out of a bar. You know what I’m talking about: cowards driving by in their cars shouting epithets out the window to impress their girlfriends. Every gay man alive has had the experience in some form. That’s why the Matthew Shepard case struck such a chord. He could have been any one of us.
After the PSA ends, I look over at Henry. “Had you seen that before?”
“No,” he replies in a small voice. “It’s very powerful. Good for her for doing that.”
It’s only then that I notice Anthony has withdrawn his hand. “So what did
you
think?” I ask, looking up at him.
He’s sitting rock-still, still staring at the TV set. He doesn’t answer.
“Had you ever heard of Matthew Shepard?” I ask.
“No,” Anthony says, finally looking down at me, like a marble statue coming to life. Some of the glow from the shower is gone. “I take it he was murdered.”
“Yeah, by a couple of punks,” Henry snaps. “Fucking self-repressed, self-loathing closet cases.”
“That’s usually the case,” I say. The buzzer again.
“Who the fuck ... ?” I stand and press the intercom. “Yeah?”
“Hi, Jeff. It’s Brent Whitehead.”
Henry is suddenly looming behind me. “Jeff, I’m sorry. I saw him on the T and I mentioned I was coming by here and that I figured we’d end up at Club Cafe....”
I scowl at him. “You told
Brent Whitehead
to come by my house?”
Henry makes a face. “You can’t just leave him standing down there, Jeff. It’s
cold
out.” I let out a long sigh and buzz Brent in.
You’ve probably gathered that I don’t really care for Brent. You’re correct. Despite his killer blues and bubble butt and the fact that, yes, we slept together a couple of years ago, I really don’t like Brent. I went home with him from Buzz one Saturday night, but Brent proved useless, a blob, lost in a K-hole. Ever since, I’ve considered him much ado about nothing. Others might rave about his naturally chiseled looks—high cheekbones, prominent jaw, skin so naturally smooth it shines like marble (with none of that typical circuit-boy razor stubble on his chest)—but I buy none of it. To me, Brent’s that particular type of gymboy whose body simply doesn’t match the voice or the personality, whose muscles only belie the girl within. In another generation, Brent would never have become so buff. He’d have been a tea-and-china queen, with gold bracelets dangling from his wrist and too much cologne on his shirts, drinking mai-tais until he was a silly mess, an “auntie” before he was thirty-five. But the Circuit Era demands even aunties have biceps and traps, and so the gold bracelets of yore have been exchanged for henna tattoos, and the mai-tais for ketamine.
He comes upstairs, but I won’t allow him to linger long in my apartment. He tries petting Mr. Tompkins, who promptly bites him, as he’s wont to do with anyone except Lloyd or me. After that, I quickly orchestrate our exit for Club Cafe.
Brent’s chattering about the Blue Ball and the Winter Party, directing all of his attention at Anthony. I do my best to ignore him. When I spot a guy I know coming at us from the opposite direction on Tremont Street, I latch on to him, glad for an opportunity to drown Brent out, even for a couple of minutes.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly realizing I’ve forgotten the guy’s name. Jack or Jake or Jacob or something. I stammer a little. “Hey. How are you?”
“Hey, Jeff,” he says.
I’ve known him for years; we marched in a couple of ACT UP demos way back in the Eighties when marching was cool and we were young.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, you know, keeping busy,” Jack or Jake—or is it Joel?—says.
He hands me a flier about a rally to be held at the State House in favor of gay marriage.
“Still the activist, huh?”
He nods. He’s gone a little flabby since our ACT UP days. I try to remember: did I have sex with him? It’s possible. It’s quite possible.
“You want to join us?” I ask. “We’re heading over to Club Cafe.”
He rolls his eyes. “To watch Madonna videos? I don’t think so.”
Suddenly I remember his name. It’s Jason, and we
did
sleep together, and we had a huge fight because he took one look at my video collection and launched into a tirade about gay culture. “What is this fascination with Bette Davis and Marilyn Monroe and all these dead movie actresses? Gay culture is so tiresome. Recycled hetero pablum, in my opinion.”
I got defensive. “We’ve reclaimed it and made it our own.”
“But it’s not ours,” Jason had said. “Once, gay people adored literary genius. Oscar Wilde. Edward Carpenter. Dorothy Parker. Now it’s Cher. What a pitiful state gay culture has devolved into.”
Oh, you can be sure I did not allow him to spend the night. I look at him now, with his sour expression and the joyless way in which he passes out fliers to people on the street.
“I haven’t been to Club Cafe in ten years,” he tells me, as if he’s proud of the fact, as if it’s some kind of achievement. Suddenly I find Brent’s prattle infinitely preferable, and I get us away from Jason as quickly as I can manage.
“He’s toxic,” I tell Henry, settling myself at the bar so I can see the video screen, where Shania Twain is telling the boys they don’t impress her much. “Why do some gay people hate gay culture so much?”
Henry shrugs.
“I mean, old Bette Davis films
speak
to something for us. Marilyn’s story has relevance. Judy Garland, too. And so on, all the way up to Princess Diana. It’s archetypal.”
“Maybe they think it’s stereotypical,” Henry says.
“So what? Behind every stereotype, there’s truth. Gay men
do
love old dead movie actresses. And larger-than-life divas. What’s so wrong with that? Why do some gay people act like it’s a bad thing?”
Henry doesn’t appear to be listening to my rant. I remember that he wanted to talk to me about something. But now my attention is drawn back to Brent, who’s cornered Anthony, talking at him intently only a few inches from his face. I can’t hear what he’s saying; the place is packed and the noise level is too loud. Many of the guys are still in their suits and ties, the grown-up costumes they wear in their offices downtown or in the Prudential Center. Brent’s the only one not to loosen up, however, even after he starts getting trashed. His tie always remains tight to his throat, the knot projecting from his tab collar almost perpendicular to the floor.
He’s trying to regale Anthony with sloppy wit. I catch a snippet of their conversation. “Now, don’t believe what you hear about Boston boys, Anthony. We don’t
all
have attitudes.”
“I know,” Anthony says earnestly. “I’ve found everyone very friendly.”
“I’ll
bet
you have,” Brent says, eyeing him over his cosmopolitan.
I order a Rolling Rock. Brent’s definitely hitting on Anthony, and Anthony seems not to be objecting. He’s listening to Brent’s every word, laughing at his every so-called joke. Oh, Brent can be dazzling, no doubt about that. He holds some big job in some high-rise—I can never remember exactly what it is that Brent
does
—and he’s always dressed real sharp. But already he’s starting to slur his words.
“You’re seething,” Henry says, leaning in toward me. “You’re letting Brent move right in on Anthony.”
“I’m not seething,” I say, watching Brent get closer and closer. Every few seconds or so, he’ll touch Anthony’s chest, laughing at something. “Anthony can do what he wants. Isn’t that what you said?”
Henry shrugs, turning his back to them. “They look like a couple of Ken dolls,” he sniffs. “You know, Jeff, you really ought to put a time limit on his stay with you.”
It’s my turn to shrug. “He intrigues me. There’s a mystery underneath that boy. I don’t buy his ingenue act.”
Henry squints at me. “You think he’s a schemer?”

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