Where The Boys Are (16 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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Two Weeks Later, Philadelphia, The Blue Ball
Jeff
“S
hane, if you put that in my eyes again, I will break it over your head.”
I’m crotch to crotch with Anthony in the middle of the dance floor. Shane has just unveiled his latest gimmick: a laser with all the power of a goddamn police searchlight. Normally I wouldn’t be such a bitch, but the X is finally loosening Anthony up, and he’s talking a little about himself. He even mentioned his father. Then along comes Shane to shine the sheen, and Anthony clams up instantly.
“Well, isn’t
she
a pet all of a sudden?” Shane gripes to Henry. I know the lingo.
Pet. Poor edgy thing.
“Hey, Jeff, X is supposed to make you happy,” Henry calls over. “What part of
happy
don’t you understand?”
“Listen, Happy Hooker, I’m going to report
you
to the IRS.” He makes a face as I rest my forehead against Anthony’s, looking into his eyes. “So ... you were saying?”
Anthony smiles dazedly. “I thought you didn’t like to talk on the dance floor.”
“Usually it’s a hard-and-fast rule.” I kiss the tip of his nose. “But you said something about your father. It’s the first time you’ve ever mentioned either of your parents.”
Anthony closes his eyes. “It’s not worth telling. He was an asshole.”
“Was?”
“Hey. What’s this song?”
I scowl. “Don’t change the subject.”
“I think it’s a diva vocal.”
I sigh, laughing. We’ve been waiting for one for a while. The music is awesome, but there’s no denying the sudden blast of power that happens on the dance floor when the DJ suddenly slides in a remix of Madonna or Celine or Whitney, or even something from one of the lesser-known circuit divas, the “Triple A’s” I call them: Amber, Anastacia, or Abigail. This one actually turns out to be Taylor Dayne, one of my all-time fave divas of the Eighties.
“I’m naked without you!”
I sing out, grabbing Anthony by the waist and grinding into him.
We’ve been feeling celebratory ever since Anthony’s HIV test came back negative. He’d been worrying ever since I talked to him about barebacking, so I took him over to Fenway to be tested. As his blood was drawn, he’d broken into a cold sweat, his face draining of color, as if the full weight of the Russian Roulette he’d been playing for the past several months had finally hit him. During the next few days we had major conversations, about the science, the ethics, and the politics of AIDS. Talk about feeling like Javitz! I found myself playing the wise old elder: “It comes down to responsibility. To others and to yourself.” Blah blah blah. I couldn’t wait to just move past it all, to hop on the plane and get here, to forget how anxious I, too, had become, waiting to find out Anthony’s results. I’m honestly not sure what I would have done—how I would have proceeded—had it not come back negative. I can’t even begin to think about it. Thankfully, I don’t have to. I can just have fun.
And Philly’s a fun city. Small like Boston, with the same higher-than-expected ratio of cute guys—especially surprising given Philly’s proximity to New York. You’d think the big city would’ve drained off more of the A-listers. But Philly’s jumping with them. Still, I only have eyes for Anthony.
We flew down as a little posse: Henry, Anthony, Shane, Brent, and I. Brent, of course, annoyed the shit out of me when he started pushing buttons on his cell phone as soon as we’d arrived, trying to get some crystal. “All he’s doing is reserving his place in line at the detox center,” I told Anthony.
“I’ve never done crystal,” he said. “I was going to try it in Miami, but then the guy I was with said he couldn’t get any.”
“Stay away from that stuff,” I insisted to him. “I’ve
been
there. I saw what was happening to myself.”
“What?”
“I was getting hard. Brittle.” I laughed. “And I don’t need any help in that department.”
“But they say you get such an awesome feeling—”
“Anthony, I’m telling you. Don’t go there.”
“But you
tried
it, Jeff. I never have.”
I gripped him by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Anthony. You just tested negative. Be glad of that. Be glad you’re alive and healthy. Tina would just mess all that up.”
He sighed, nodding. “Okay, Jeff. If you say I shouldn’t, I won’t.”
I smiled. He was learning his lessons well.
The welcome party on Friday night was okay, but it was the overnight party at ShamBlue that really rocked. Brent, thankfully, disappeared with a couple of devoted Tina fans from across the river in Jersey. Meanwhile, Shane was a hit, delighting the crowd with his laser guns, strapped to his hips in holsters. He looked like Gary Cooper suddenly gone gay in
High Noon.
As we planned, we crashed at our E-mail buddy Rudy’s house on Spruce Street. I blushed to spy a Polaroid of myself on Rudy’s refrigerator, secured by a Judy Garland magnet. It was from the White Party, and I had my arms around Rudy, both of us shirtless and sweaty. I looked pretty twisted; I sure don’t remember that photo being taken.
But if Rudy had thought this might be round two for us, he was mistaken. As pretty as I still found his eyes and his body, it’s
Anthony
who’s commanded all of my attention. As distractions go—since Henry still keeps insisting that’s all Anthony is to me, a distraction from Lloyd—he certainly is distracting. We slept in each other’s arms on the floor until nearly four this afternoon. Henry and Shane shared Rudy’s couch. Once, when they thought we were asleep, I heard them going at it. I just laughed to myself. If Anthony was
my
distraction, then what was Shane to Henry?
When we all had finally roused ourselves, I insisted we eat some bananas and protein bars, and filled everyone’s sports bottle with water. Henry complained that we’d be pissing for hours, but to survive a circuit weekend, you have to be savvy. You’ve got to keep nourished and well hydrated. I also took a long, hot shower, giving my chest and torso a good close shave for tonight’s party. Lloyd likes me better with some hair on my chest, but it tends to obscure the definition of my pecs and abs. Go ahead and call me self-absorbed if you want: I’ve worked
hard
for that definition. And besides, Lloyd’s preferences are not necessarily high on my list right now, even if I do keep thinking of him at the most unexpected moments all weekend.
Later, pumping up at the Twelfth Street Gym, Anthony must have picked up on something. “Do you wish Lloyd was here, Jeff?” he asked.
He was spotting me as I bench-pressed my max weight, two hundred pounds. I looked up at him from under the bar. “Lloyd never comes to circuit parties,” I told him.
Anthony just shrugged as I proceeded to do eight reps, stepping in to help me with the ninth and tenth. I let the barbell clang back into place and sat up. I could see Lloyd wasn’t the only thing making Anthony anxious.
“Why do you keep looking over your shoulder?” I asked.
“I’m worried about Brent. Where is he? We haven’t heard from him since we got here.”
“If he’s not here at the gym for his party pump,” I reasoned, “he’s
really
twisted.”
That’s when some guy walking by made an obnoxious comment about all the circuit queens taking over “his” gym.
“Excuse me?” I asked, going from zero to six thousand on the anger scale in the space of a microsecond.
The guy shrank back but still managed to give me a sneer. “What’s the matter? Roid rage?”
“I don’t take steroids,” I snarled.
The guy sniffed. “You guys come down here and just take over. Every goddamn restaurant, every fucking cafe. It’s the height of winter, but guys are walking out of the gym without their shirts on.”
“And what’s so wrong with that?” I asked. “Why are you so offended?”
The guy just huffed off.
Brent never did show up, and all night Anthony’s kept an eye out for him. I’ve come to realize that’s just the way Anthony is: fiercely protective of anybody who comes within his sphere. He’s truly as compassionate as he is sexy. The other day in Boston, his eyes had misted up when he saw a dead cat in the road. I found his tears endearing. I could see how Anthony might become much more than simply a distraction—if it weren’t for the fact that he continues to disappear for one night a week, and that he still refuses to talk of his past.
“Na-ked,”
he’s chanting now, along with Taylor Dayne.
“Na-ked!”
I keep my arms tightly around his waist. There’s one other thing that hasn’t changed about Anthony as well: he still can’t dance. Janet Reno could manage better than he can.
Some guy sidles up beside us. “You two make a fabulous couple,” he says.
“Hey! Thanks!” Anthony’s face lights up.
I smile, too, but instantly wish the guy hadn’t said it. It’s what people used to say when they saw Lloyd and me together—and now suddenly Lloyd’s right here again, squeezed down into the infinitesimally small space between Anthony and me.
Damn.
And I was doing so well. I hadn’t thought of Lloyd in over an hour.
“I love small-waisted guys,” the guy-with-the-compliments is continuing. “Awesome abs, too, dude.” He actually has the audacity to run his hand down Anthony’s stomach. Anthony doesn’t flinch or push him away. He just grins.
The guy’s obviously hoping for a three-way. He punches both hands against my chest in that primal gesture that gay men use on the dance floor: sizing up the meat, inspecting the merchandise, a tribal mating ritual. But I’m not interested. Suddenly I want Anthony all to myself. I maneuver my back to the intruder, putting Anthony out of his reach. The guy’s hot enough, but he’s wearing one of those heavy chain-link necklaces that are so last year. So
two
years ago, even.
Packing to head here to Philly, I laughed when I opened my top drawer. It looked like a dragnet through partyland: love beads, freedom rings, ticket stubs, whistles, pacifiers, glow sticks, armbands—even the same clunky chain-link necklace the guy’s wearing. Even as I bought the damn thing, I knew it would eventually end up there, along with the rest of the debris. But I can’t bear to part with any of it. Each of the trinkets holds some memory. Javitz bought me the leather armband. The whistles hail from the days of Doc Martens boots and sideburns down to my jaw when we marched through the streets with Javitz shouting until our voices were hoarse. More embarrassing are the kitschy freedom rings I wore in my very first Gay Pride parade in Boston. The love beads date from the summer of ‘91 or ’92, when Lloyd and I spent nearly an hour trying them on together, picking out complimentary colors.
I was staring down into the drawer when Anthony had appeared over my shoulder. I laughed and tried to close the drawer quickly, but he asked to see what was inside. I stepped back, letting him look. He reached in, lifting out the flotsam and jetsam of my life as if he were running his hands through buried treasure. He treated the trinkets with reverence, and even though he said nothing, I’d already become adept at reading his emotions.
This could have been my stuff
, Anthony was thinking.
I could have experienced all of this too if I hadn’t come out so late.
So why
hadn’t
he?
It’s been almost a month now since Anthony came into my life, and still my hunky houseguest remains an enigma. He’s like a character in some sci-fi movie who’s just hatched out of a pod or thawed out from a hundred-year sleep. It’s as if he’d come to life on some mad doctor’s table—no childhood, no history, no family, no past.
He’s taken a job with a local florist, delivering arrangements on foot to customers in the South End and Back Bay. He’s getting paid under the table, which he prefers. He gives me a few dollars toward food and assures me he’ll soon start looking for a place of his own. But I’m not pressuring him to leave. Okay, so Henry’s right. Although I miss my privacy, Anthony’s presence means I don’t have to think about Lloyd, about the fact that our phone calls have diminished, or that neither of us has made any plans to visit the other.
Still, Anthony hasn’t made the move to sharing my bed. I just can’t go that far. He sleeps on the couch. No rule has been made about it; he just seems to sense that I prefer it that way. After sex, he shyly says good night and retreats to his spot in the living room. I never make the offer for him to stay, and he never asks.
Yet while he hasn’t learned much rhythm on the dance floor, I have to admit that Anthony
has
been making progress in other areas. The sex is definitely getting better. I’ve noticed he copies little things I do, like the tongue in the ear or the slapping of the dick against the face. Either Anthony was telling the truth and he
really
never had gay sex before a few months ago, or he’s had very
boring
gay sex. When I press for details, he still insists there just isn’t much to tell. There’s been no one. He’s been alone.
I just don’t buy it. I didn’t that first day we talked and I still don’t. One just doesn’t live almost thirty years without
some
relationship. Certainly not when one looks like Anthony.

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