Where The Boys Are (23 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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I smirk. “If my heart’s still beating, I am.”
Anthony kisses me lightly. “It is.” He smiles. “You want to take a walk?”
“What? And leave a good song?”
Anthony nods. “Come on.”
I put down my beer and take his hand. We walk off down Bourbon Street. It’s a crazy fever pitch of activity out here. We don’t speak, just soak up the sights and sounds. A juggler in a gold lame thong. A heavy woman singing opera from a balcony.
It doesn’t take long for us to wander a few blocks, where it suddenly turns very hetero. Anthony and I walk hand in hand into a mob of drunken straight boys.
“Faggots,” I hear someone call.
Anthony’s grip tightens on my hand.
“Just keep walking,” I tell him.
“Lookit the fags holdin’ hands,” some brute bellows. “Isn’t that sweet?”
I can feel Anthony trembling. My anger is surging, but my survival skills pull rank. We round a corner, heading smack into a crowd of people. A policeman stands not far away.
“No matter where we go,” I mutter. “It’s not fucking safe anywhere.”
“On the dance floor,” Anthony says. “It’s safe there.”
I look up at him and smile. “Yeah. It’s safe there.”
We find a spot under a trellised porch covered with vines and sit against the building. We have a good view of the festivities in the street, but we’re hidden somewhat. Protected. Anthony sits close to me, still holding my hand.
“You’re not just missing, Henry, are you?” he asks finally. “It’s also Lloyd, isn’t it?”
I look over at him. “I’ve told you. Lloyd never goes to circuit parties.”
“You just miss him in general. I can tell.”
I shrug. A big black transsexual with exposed breasts throws a handful of beads at us. I stand and unzip my pants, flashing my dick, and she hoots. I turn back to Anthony. “Truth be told, I think it’s over between Lloyd and me,” I tell him as I sit back down.
“You’ve thought that before.”
I sigh. I’ve only known Anthony a few months, but the kid’s picked up quite a bit. “Yes, I suppose I have. And things got good again and we seemed to be giving it one more try. Our last best chance, in a way. But that tanked pretty fast.” I let my voice and my thoughts trail off. “But why go there right now, huh? Why get all serious when we’re in the midst of all this revelry?” I try playfully nuzzling Anthony’s nose.
“Well, I want to go there because I want to
know.
” Anthony’s voice is serious and he keeps his gaze steady at me. “I want to know what your feelings are for him.”
“I see.” I ignore another string of beads that lands at my feet. “Well, okay. My feelings. I love Lloyd. You know that.”
“Yes. I know that he’s family. Even more than the way family is defined by straights.”
I smile, remembering my words. “Why do I feel as if you want to a add a ‘blah blah blah’ to the end of that?”
Anthony leans in closer to me, his blue eyes plaintive. “You know how I feel about you, Jeff, don’t you?”
I tousle his hair as I might a child’s. “No. How do you feel about me?”
Anthony laughs. He leans back, then quickly sits forward again, as if he had the words on the tip of his tongue. But he stops, shaking his head. All at once he jumps up, and he begins to sing. Yes, sing. As if we were in some gay movie musical.
“
Don’t ... you ... know ... that when you touch ... me ... baby ... that it’s torture?
”
Amber. He’s doing Amber. From the dance floor. I’m flabbergasted.
He spreads his arms out wide, singing off-key and totally getting the words wrong. A couple of passing revelers start mimicking him, serving as impromptu backup singers.
“I watch your mouth when you’re speaking. Stu-u-u-udy your body when you walk out of the room. You don’t know what you do tooooooo—this heart of mine!
”
He falls down on his knees in front of me. The guys behind him applaud, but he’s oblivious to them. He’s looking up at me with the widest, most adorable eyes I think I’ve ever seen. I cup his cheeks in my hands.
“You crazy, sweet thing, you,” I say.
“Is that all you feel about me?” he asks. “That I’m sweet?”
I smile affectionately. “The whole
point
of that song, sweetheart, is that it’s all about sex. That’s what she’s singing about.”
Anthony’s face clouds over. “It’s more than the sex for me, how I feel about you.”
There goes my heart again, melting. “And it is for me, too, Anthony. It is for me, too.”
He sighs and returns to his place sitting next to me. “But you’re not like—you know—you’re not in love with me or anything.”
I run my hand through his cornsilk hair. “Look, Anthony. When you’ve been going round the rodeo as long as I have, you just don’t use words or phrases like that very easily. There’s
twelve years
pulsating between Lloyd and me. I can’t just put a knife in that. You get what I’m saying?”
Anthony nods but says nothing.
“I
do
like you,” I tell him. “I like you a lot. I don’t know. Maybe all this is happening for a reason. I believe in fate, you know. Maybe it was fate meeting you the same night that Lloyd told me he was buying a house with somebody else.”
“But you still love him.”
I sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. But maybe I have to face up to the fact that I was daydreaming when I thought we’d ever get back together. Maybe a few romantic times together last year just turned my head.”
“So I’m what they call the rebound,” Anthony says, turning his face to look at me. I touch his cheek.
“We can use other people’s definitions of circumstances and relationships, or we can make up our own.” I look at him just as intently as he looked at me earlier. “But I can tell you this much. If we’re going to have
any
kind of relationship, we need honesty. I’ve just been honest with you. How about returning the favor?”
“What do you mean?”
“Okay, for starters, where do you go every week when you disappear? I’ve stopped asking about it, because I felt it wasn’t any of my business. But since we’re getting closer here—”
Anthony closes his eyes. “I can’t tell you, Jeff. I’m sorry. But I can’t tell you.”
“Look. I found a bus schedule under the couch. Are you taking the bus somewhere? Is that why you’re gone overnight?”
Anthony says nothing.
I sigh. “Anthony, I want to respect your privacy, but you can’t talk about wanting a relationship with me on the one hand and then not tell me anything about yourself.”
He opens his eyes to look at me defensively. “I’ve told you stuff.”
“Oh, come
on
. I don’t even know the name of the town you were born in.”
“Lake Bluff.”
“Okay. Well, how about your parents? You never talk about them.”
“My father’s dead.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s still alive.”
I laugh. “Come on. This is what I
mean.”
“What? I’m answering your questions!”
“One-word answers. And it’s more than just facts and dates.” I scowl over at him. “I just can’t believe you spent your whole life before coming out as gay without having a
single
significant relationship.”
“Why not?”
“Because—because—it just doesn’t happen, that’s why!”
“Maybe not for you, but it did for me.”
“Come
on,
Anthony. You can’t see why I have questions? You can’t see why I wonder? You’re so mysterious about your past and then you disappear once a week to someplace you can’t tell me about! What
is
it? A wife and kid hidden away somewhere? A rich sugardaddy you have to visit? A maiden aunt? A monastery?
What?”
“No, Jeff, it’s not—”
“Then what is it?” My voice rises without my even being aware of it.
“Tell me what it
is!”
“I can’t tell you, Jeff!” Anthony stands up abruptly. “Okay?
I just can’t tell you!”
He seems as if he might cry, as if he’s on the verge of a major fit, but then he calms down. “I just can’t tell you right now, Jeff,” he says.
“Please
accept that.”
I stand up beside him and put my arms around him. “Okay, buddy. It’s okay. I’m sorry if I got you worked up.” I kiss his ear. “You can’t tell me right now. Okay. I
do
accept that. Because it means someday you
will
be able to tell me, right?”
“I hope so,” Anthony says quietly.
“Well, well, well!” A voice from behind suddenly startles both of us. We look around. Brent. With three other guys in flower-print sarongs. Even from this far away I can tell they’re majorly fucked up.
“Oh, Jesus,” I groan.
“Well, will you took at these two lovebirds humping on the streets,” Brent says, elbowing one of the other boys. “Don’t they make for a pretty postcard from New Orleans!”
“Brent, we’re having a conversation,” I say, completely vexed.
“A
conversation!
Do gay men actually
have
conversations at Mardi Gras?”
“Yes, gay
men
do,” I snarl.
“Boys,
however, are apparently incapable of such behavior.”
“Oh,
my!
Quick! Somebody get a pad and pencil! Jeff is getting
wry!”
His gaggle of sarong boys all laugh hysterically. “Somebody call the writers for
Will and Grace!”
“I’m going to punch him,” I whisper, more to myself than Anthony. “I’m actually going to
fucking punch him.
”
“Hey, Brent,” Anthony says. “You know the guys we’re staying with? Eliot, the tall, dark,
really cute
guy with the amazing brown eyes? He thinks you’re hot.”
“No
way,”
Brent says.
“Total way,” Anthony says. “They’re in dancing with Shane right now.”
Brent sparkles. “Okay. See you boys later.” He turns to his entourage. “You can either come with me or stay here and have a
conversation.
They elect to follow him back to the bar.
I look up at Anthony with bemusement. “Eliot will have your head on a silver platter.”
Anthony sits back down and laughs. “Got rid of him, though, didn’t I?”
I sit down myself and kiss him. “You never cease surprising me, kiddo.”
“Jeff, I love you.”
I smile. “Oh, be careful where you go, my friend. Others before you have trod that very same path and later wished fervently that they’d taken a detour.”
“I don’t care. I’ve never felt this way before in my life. I love you.”
I put my arm back around his shoulders. I know it’s not love. It’s infatuation; it’s lust; it’s gratitude; it’s all those wonderful pheromones bouncing around inside both of us. Of
course
Anthony would think he’s in love. He came out into the world of circuit parties and gym queens and easy, fast, furious sex. Hell, the very words he used to express his so-called love for me were taken from the lyrics of a throbbing circuit anthem. Of course he’d confuse all of that with love.
But love it isn’t. That much I know for sure. You can only talk about love after being in a relationship, up and down, around and about, back and forth. You can only talk about love after surviving sickness and death and betrayal and anger and jealousy. You can only talk about love after you’ve untangled the emotional fabric of your own life. And neither of us seems to be in any position to do that right now.
Oh, maybe I’m being far too dogmatic. I do have that tendency. Javitz used to scold me for it. The world is never as black and white as I might presume. I can’t play the hardened sophisticate all the time. I can’t deny that the sheer youthful ingenuousness of Anthony’s words has touched me. Is it really so long ago that I myself was so young?
I tighten my grip on his shoulder and pull him in closer. Together we stare out into the mind-numbing assault on our senses. A clown is fellating a naked man in a cowboy hat. A woman covered in gold metallic paint gyrates on the shoulders of a midget. The rhythmic disco beat pulses down the street from Oz.
“You’re not in any trouble, are you?” I ask softly, close to Anthony’s ear. “If you are, and you need help—”
“Thanks, Jeff,” Anthony responds, leaning his head down on my shoulder. “That, I can assure you. I’m not in any trouble.”
We sit that way for close to an hour. My mind is starting to wind down, my body beginning to wear out. Some of these boys can keep going for days, but more often than not lately, I’ve been retiring early. At my age, my dad was barely making it through the eleven o’clock news; usually he’d be snoozing in his chair during
Kojak
. And here I am pushing myself to stay awake until dawn. The chemicals can only work for so long.

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