Shades of Gray

The Love Letter

With some friends on Fire Island. It’s cold and the season is over so there is no one here. Fire's burning. We're drinking red wine. I put on one of your CDs. All of a sudden, silence. Everyone stops talking. It's not the first time this has happened. Something about your music. They listen to one song, then another. Transported. Each one to a different place, a different memory. This goes for a while. Then, someone at the table wants to know. Who made you this mixed CD? And so I tell them about a boy I met at a cemetery. Who took me to a beach once and under the moonlight played me a song about two people who together forget the world. And you can tell by the look in their eyes that they are overwhelmed by the story. The romance of it all. It's a love letter this CD, they say. Then they ask that question. The one I know would make you smile if you were here.

Stay Tuned

"Hi My Name is Ethan."

"Hi Ethan."

"It's been 148 days since my last post."

Yeah, sorry about that. I'm sure you're thinking, what the hell happened?

It's been a long five months, let's see if I can get you up to speed. In the movies they'd call this a music montage:

Fade in. Fast edits of me at a bar. Drinks, boys, smiles, dancing. Then the beginning of a dramatic score. I can feel someone burning a hole in the back of my head. I turn. Seth. Our eyes lock. This is the first time I see him since he found out I slept with his boyfriend, now ex. For a moment the music stops, nothing but silence and the sound of a heart beating. Bah-boom, bah-boom. If looks could kill. Cut. I'm at a different bar this time, walking through a maze of people, their faces one big blur. Just as I get to the other end, I see him, flirting with another boy. He looks at me. Cut. More encounters. All the same. No words spoken, plenty said. You see me in my bedroom, I'm texting Zach but get no answer. A quick shot of me on a date. Cute guy, nice restaurant. Then just as he signals the waiter to come over, you catch me sneaking a peek at my watch. Now I'm at my cubicle working hard. I bury myself in more and more projects. A couple of parties that end in good but entirely unmemorable sex. At the end always the same scenario: I wake up in the middle of the night, quickly get dressed. As I open the door on my way out, a thin ray of light pierces through the darkness. A quick flash of a man's face deep in sleep. He's handsome. I leave. More work, more dates, more sex. The pages of a calendar peel away as footage of my life runs underneath. April, May, June, July. I'm in front of the computer. Close up of the screen. It's blank. I shut down my laptop. Go to bed. As I turn off the lights, fade out.

I've tried writing. But nothing. As though two years of blogging have left me bone dry. And so I've spent the last few months rehydrating with Didion, White, Saramango, Spanbauer, A. S. Byatt, Eugenides (if my style seems different it's because I'm reading Middlesex right now. Fucking masterpiece).

Maybe it's just what the doctor ordered. A long summer break. Now it's time to write again. If this were a TV show, I'd be starting a new season just about now.

Announcer: Next Monday... On Shades Of Gray...

"You ever been in love?"

There are moments that can change a life...

"I don't know, something about him. He's different."

The episode that will have everyone talking...

"I think we should go on a formal date, you know, the All-American dinner and a movie..."

The real adventure is just beginning.
An all new S-O-G.
Monday at 9/8 Central.

There have been some interesting moments in the last few months. A stuffed animal given to me by Cameron on my visit to LA. Gray fuzzy little elephant with human eyes. Cameron who heard I don't do furry toys decided I needed someone to keep me company at night. One of the more romantic presents I've ever gotten. Also a midnight drive to the beach where under the moonlight Cameron proceeded to pull out his iPod, place the headphones in my ears then hit play to Snow Patrol's Chasing Cars. As we're lying on the cold sand on dark Los Angeles night, huddled under a blanket, a kiss, one line.

"Will you lie with me and just forget the world?"

Cameron is sure to have a recurring role this season.

Stay tuned.

Boomerangs

When he was barely 11, Josh Genova wrote an unsigned love letter to a boy he was nuts over, tied it to a balloon and released it into the universe. It was a silly thing to do, he knew that. Still, it felt good, cleansing. Like a Sunday morning confession.

It was his adolescent way of expressing his feelings without the fear of anyone finding out. But a day later the balloon descended into the lake where the boy he liked, and his family had a summerhouse. The wind carrying his love note to its intended (or more precisely unintended) recipient.

To this day Josh (now 50) believes that if you really want a message delivered, if you try hard enough, somehow it'll find a way. Reach its destination.

Last week, another message getting through. Mine. This time with messy consequences. Lipstick, everywhere.

"Ethan?"

"Hey man what's up?"

"Other than my relationship being over, not much."

"What happened?" I ask, expecting another story about how they're not communicating anymore.

"He found your blog."

"Oh."

I must have apologized a hundred times. Never intended for that to happen. The few friends who heard the story would always ask me, "Don't you want Seth to know?" My answer, an emphatic no. What for? I know it happened, Zach knows it happened. Anything else would just be cruel.

I call Josh, who immediately recounts his balloon anecdote. He knows. I know. A message like that always gets delivered.

"I have to say, didn't think you had it in you. It's almost Machiavellian. Talk about getting even."

"Stop. You make it sound like I planned it."

"No, but you wrote it, then posted it. I mean what did you think was going to happen?"

"It's not a New York Times best-seller. It's a stupid blog. What are the odds?"

"Apparently quite good. How's Zach doing?"

"I'm sure he's freaking out."

"Is he mad at you?"

"No, not really. Handled it quite well I suppose. I would have lost it."

I look up, the sun is shining strong. I'm away on vacation. Palm Springs. Grateful to be far from New York in more ways than one.

"So does this mean Zach's read all of your posts about him?"

"Well if he hasn't, I'm sure he's reading them now. Seth sent him a an e-mail with links to all the stories."

"Oh my God."

It's not until Josh says those words that it finally sinks in. Seth has read them too. Each and every one of them. I try to recall what I wrote, but some of those entries are more than two years old. I know it couldn't have been easy. I know there are parts that must have hurt. I feel horrible. I can imagine how he must feel.

I can imagine because unintentionally, he had done the same to me. I close my eyes, and for a second I go back in time. Six years back. Just months after we split, Seth called asking for help finding his keys. He thought he may have left them at his desk. I remember opening one of his drawers looking for them but instead stumbling upon a stack of printed e-mails, as thick as a novel. Shouldn't have looked, but I did.

Hundreds of electronic love letters eternalized in paper. One on top of another. All sent to one boy. A boy named Zach. I looked at the first one. Sweet declarations of love. New love. One line stood out in particular.

"The last few weeks have been magical," he wrote. He'd never felt like that with anyone. Then that moment. My eyes, one big blur. The date. Way before we called it quits. My hands start shaking, warm wet tracks down my face. I try not to cry, but the tears, they won't stop coming. I read a couple of more e-mails, then quietly put the pile down as I found it. My questions answered.

Never told him about that day. Never mentioned that I knew. There was no need. At that point we had already been apart a long time. It took a while before that final dust settled, and more than a year before he no longer occupied every cell in mind.

Now it's he who is reading my letters. I feel bad for him, the pain he must have felt going through my thoughts. There's guilt and shame a touch of regret. But along with all the appropriate reactions, one that catcthes me by surprise. A smile.

Maybe it's the natural response of a vindicated person. Maybe I'm nowhere as evolved as I like to think I am. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the way of the world. Another message sent. Another Boomerang returned.

Triggers

It's never quite over is it? Like over-over. After all the sadness, the anger and the healing, after it's said and done, it can all come back in an instant. Set off by a trigger with the unrelenting power to roll back time. For some that trigger is an anniversary. For others, a song. For me it's always been his birthday.

----------------------------------------

"You're Invited to Seth's Big 30th Birthday Bash," reads the e-mail, three exclamation marks.

I know better than to open it, but I can't help it. An addict falling off the wagon.

I hate myself for being so weak, but mostly I resent him for opening that door again. His birthday was three weeks ago, and surprisingly this year it came and went without a hitch. I thought I was done.

My eyes follow the words on the screen.

Pool party. Swanky hotel. Midtown.

Before I get to the time and date, I come back to my senses, hit delete.

I've learned my lesson a long time ago. Tried the whole "let's be friends" thing back when the wounds were still fresh, but quickly realized I couldn't. Too much anger. It wasn't anything he did in particular that got me so mad. Just a simple resentment towards a man who was able to make the transition from lover to friend with such ease.

And so one day I stopped talking to him. No phone calls, no dinners, no nothing.

I thought it would be hard, I thought I'd miss him too much. But instead I felt happier, healthier. Then I discovered a direct correlation: the less I knew about him, the better I felt. And so I made a conscious effort to not know. Seth was angry at first. Confused by my silence. But for the first time it didn't matter.

Years have gone by and still I choose not to know. Figure there's no need to wake that sleeping dog.

Then an e-mail. One small gesture, and the anger which seemed to have almost disappeared is now finding its way back from the dead, like a serial killer in bad horror flick.

I tell myself as long as I don't know the date and time I can't obsess. But is it ever that simple?

"Are you going to Seth's birthday party?" Comes a text. It's from Zach.

"Wasn't planning on it, no."

"Yeah, didn't think you would. Pity. I was the one who suggested he invited you, thought we could finally spend some time together, cohort."

I cut the exchange short, before he blurts out the specifics and for the next few days try not to hear about it. But I know. It's only a matter of time.

On Friday I get another e-mail. This time there's no escape.

"Last reminder: Seth's 30th Birthday Party TONIGHT."

No need to open. It's right there in the subject matter.

And then it starts. A rush of thoughts and flashbacks and feelings and moments. Seth at 23, Seth at 24. Birthdays I've celebrated with him, those I did not. I make plans to meet friends. Anything to get my mind off the party. Soho House, drinks, a cute boy's smile. But then my mind drifts, stubborn interruptions of bathing suits, Seth's face, his boyfriend's tight body. I try to focus. But all I can think of is the unthinkable. I need something momentous to happen, I need this to be anything but the day I couldn't go to Seth's 30th birthday party. But I realize it's a lost cause.

I'm bored and I'm tired and now, slightly drunk. I finally glance at the exit sign, put down my umpteenth vodka tonic, head towards the coat check.

"Hey what's your name?"

I look up. Blue eyes, buzzed hair, nice smile.

"Ethan."

"Hey Ethan, I'm JT."

"Hey."

"Where are are you from?"

"I live in Chelsea."

Awkward pause. I realize he's waiting for me to reciprocate. I just want my coat.

"And you?" I finally ask back.

"I'm stationed in Honolulu."

He smiles. The set up, it worked.

"Stationed? As in the military?"

"Yep." he says with a smirk on his face. He knows he's got my attention.

"I'm being shipped to Iraq in three weeks."

Smile. Dimples. Deal, sealed.

"And how many times have you used that line tonight?"

"You're the first. Is it working?"

"If I say no, that would make me quite unpatriotic."

"And callous."

"Callous? That's a big word for a soldier."

"Marine."

"Stop."

"Too much?"

"You had me at Honolulu."

----------------------------------------

A bright ray of sun coming in from the window wakes me up. My head's pounding, my mouth's dry. I open my eyes slowly trying to reduce the light's unforgiving effect on my pupils. I scan the room. A hotel. Flat screen TV, an empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot, my clothes scattered like breadcrumbs all the way from the door to the bed. I peel the blanket off my chest slowly, a prisoner making his escape. That's when I notice his arm around my waist, his legs intertwined with mine. We're cuddling.

"Good morning," he says.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 11:00"

"Shit. I have plans to meet someone for brunch at noon," I lie. That line flies out of my mouth almost too quickly. It's convincing. I remind myself to call my therapist the moment I make more money.

"Sorry, I gotta run."

"Do I get your number?"

"Sure," I say as I fish my clothes up from his floor. "Got a pen?"

He pulls out a color Blackberry, new, shiny, bells, whistles. It's the Cadillac of hand-held devices.

"They give that to all soldiers?" I joke. "I'm in the wrong business."

"I'm a doctor. Do you have to go so soon?"

"Yes," I say. "Before I find out you're Jewish and single."

I leave his hotel room, look at the date on my watch. Smile. I made it through the night. No more anxious feelings. At least not for another year.

And then a thought. A happy one. Last night wasn't the night of Seth's birthday party. 'Twas the night I entertained the troops.

The Peakers

My friend Ben calls them peakers. Yes, Peakers. People who peak early. They seem to have it all. Looks, status, popularity. You know the type. The quarterbacks and cheerleaders who grow up to be perfectly respectable mechanics and waitresses. High school, their heyday.

"You won't believe who I ran into the other day."

"Who?"

"Beau's dad."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He looked great but his wife, poor thing has Parkinson's, isn't that a shame? So young. She could barely walk..."

My mom keeps on talking, her voice slowly drifting into the background. She lost me at "Beau." It's been 17 years since I heard that name.

Before Jace, before John, before even Seth, there was Beau.

His full name was Beau Lawrence, the best looking kid in school. Hands down. Big brown eyes, freckles that were carefully sprinkled on the bridge of his nose, a disarming smile. But what had every girl in town swooning (and what earned him the nickname of "Samson") was his hair. Shiny thick black hair that moved.

He was so beautiful in fact that one day when a new teacher arrived and saw that he was out sick she asked, "Is it true? Is he as cute as they say?"

His was a formidable charm. One look at him and you fell in love.

Not sure when it happened or even how, but Beau and I were best friends growing up. Movies, parties, sleepovers, homework. Every memory I have of that time seems to include him. Good Memories. To this day when I think "happy," I think Beau.

We spent every moment together. At school, at home. Beau and Ethan, two peas. One pod.

Then one day, a moment. A mother walks into her son's room, her eyes down, her lips struggling to find the right words.

"Your father... He just accepted a new job."

"Oh yeah? That's great."

"It's in South America."

They say we can pinpoint the exact moment we got kicked out of the Garden of Eden. A split of a second after which nothing is ever the same.

For the next few months I tried not to think about it. Not when my friends got excited about starting junior high the following year. Not when packing our stuff into large containers that would take three months to cross two oceans. Not even when boarding the saddest flight of my life. But when that plane touched ground in Buenos Aires, it finally hit me. Warm wet tracks down the sides of my face. Eight thousand miles away from home.

Between the shock and the cluelessness that comes with being a foreigner, I passed the time writing letters. So many letters. In them, I'd tell Beau all about my new life, my new house, my new friends. Never mentioned any of the bad stuff, not one word about the loneliness.

Sent pictures too. Happy pictures. One with the hottest girl in my new Spanish-speaking school. One with my new beautiful Siberian husky dog. Snapshots from trips to Rio, Antarctica, Santiago, the Amazons.

Was passing it off as an adventure, something to envy. But not even a visit to The Land of Fire could hide the fact that all I wanted was to go home.

In class I'd sit there staring out the window, daydreaming about the day we’d see each other again, replaying the scene hundreds of times in my head. He'd give me a big hug, maybe even wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. Then he’d tell me how much he missed me.

Took four years before we finally got on that plane back home. When we arrived I dropped my stuff and headed out the door, not even stopping to take a shower after a 12-hour flight. I ran. I ran so fast I had to stop every now and then to catch my breath.

When I got to Beau’s house his mother greeted me at the door.

“You look so grown up, my God, how long has it been?”

That’s when I saw him.

Double take. When I left he was just a boy. Now he was 16 and, if at all possible, even more beautiful than before. He had broad shoulders, short buzzed hair, scruff on his face. A man.

It was nice to see him again, be with him. For the first time in years I was happy. I had my best friend back. I was home.

It wasn’t until school started a couple of weeks later that I realized things weren’t as I hoped. I’d been away a long time. Too long. Beau had new circle of friends now.

Four years I’d waited for this moment and now I was struggling. Again.

That’s when the anger came. Anger at my parents. Anger at the world. But mostly I was angry with Beau. He seemed to be too busy for me. He'd moved on.

One day as we passed each other in the hallway, he said hi and I just kept on walking.

We never spoke again.

I saw him once at a restaurant years later. We both nodded at each other from across the room but neither of us made an attempt to start up a conversation. Maybe we were both too proud, or maybe just insecure.

Don't think about him very often, but every once in a while I find myself wondering. What is he up to? Did he ever get married? Is he still beautiful?

“Are you listening to me?”

“Huh?”

“I was telling you that Beau’s parents invited us to lunch. It was lovely.”

“Oh?”

“They went all out. Cooked such a wonderful meal.”

“That’s nice.”

“You know, they showed us some pictures. Family Albums. There were so many of you. Pages and pages of pictures from Buenos Aires. There was one of you in your room, one from your school, and quite a few from Brazil, even one in Antarctica.”

I take a deep breath. For so many years I thought he didn't care. I thought he was indifferent. He wasn't. He kept the pictures. Every single one of them, carefully placed them in an album and showed them to my mother during her visit.

I feel a tightening of the throat. A mixture of glee and sadness. I want to ask but I don’t. It doesn't matter anymore.

“You know Beau's still single. He’s gained some weight. Never went to college."

My mom. As though she's reading my thoughts. She knows.

"He's still working with his father at the shop,” she ads.

I smile.

My friend Ben calls them peakers. The quarterbacks and the cheerleaders who become mechanics and waitresses.

“Oh, and more thing," she says. A gossipy schoolgirl. "He’s totally bald now.”

The Nightcap

It had been months since I saw him. Last time we spoke, he was going back to his boyfriend for the umpteenth time.

Then, out of the blue, a call.

"How are you?"

"I'm good. And you?"

"Good. Good. Work's great."

I don't ask anymore. I know the drill.

We meet where we always meet. A cozy little East Village pizzeria. Exposed brick, brown leather booths, soft lighting. A dive of a place that somehow always makes me feel comfortable. It has character. New York before the Giulianis and the Bloombergs.

We say hi, take our coats off, order food. It's become somewhat of a ritual. Big thin crust pizza with countless toppings, cold blond-amber beer and stories. I like his stories. They're peppered with soul. This time I hear about his folks, his sister, his childhood in South Australia. More beer, more talking. It's nice. He grew up on a farm, wonderful folks. Godparents who stopped speaking to him after he came out. I'm listening. Intently. Not because it's polite but because he's interesting.

This isn’t a date. It’s a dinner. It’s the most fun non-date dinner I’ve had in a long time.

At one point he gets up, goes to the jukebox. From my seat I watch him flip through an endless list of songs. A light coming from inside the box settles on his face. It flickers. Blue then red then green back to blue. A mesmerizing dance of colors that produces a smile on my lips. I catch myself then quickly erase it.

He sits down. Starts talking, then stops.

What's wrong?"

"Huh?"

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

“What are we doing?”

Smile on his face, gone.

“Seriously man, what are we doing? Are we friends? Are we more than friends? What are we?”

“We’re friends.”

“Really? Because this doesn’t feel very friendly.”

“No.”

I don’t know why I’m upset, why I’m here. Maybe it’s because I like his company. Maybe it’s cause deep down I know every time he calls me, meets with me, he’s cheating on Seth a little. And not just with anyone but with me, the ex.

“Do you have a crush on me? I ask. Are you angry with Seth? Is this your way of hurting him back?”

"I could ask you the same thing."

There's no going back now. The words come rushing out. A broken dam.

“Can we really be friends? With our history, our past? How does that work? The way it is now? We get together when Seth’s out of town. Is that what our ‘friendship’ will look like? A dirty little secret you have to hide from the man you’re supposed to be sharing your life with? And if this isn’t really about friendship, if this is in fact more than that, could we really have a relationship? Are you going to date your lover’s ex-lover? The man you cheated on him with. The man he’s cheated on with you? This is all so Maury Povich.”

He smiles.

“Besides, as beautiful as you are, as smart, as eloquent, how am I supposed to ignore the fact that you’ve not only cheated on your boyfriend, you did it with his ex. That’s got to be pretty high on the ‘Lowest Of the Low’ list.”

He looks down. I’ve said too much.

“Seriously man. What are we doing?”

No need to answer that.

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just trying to understand. This is a dangerous road we’re on. Thought it might be wise to stop, take a deep breath, talk.”

I want to get up, give him a kiss on his forehead like they do in the movies when they’re about to make a grand exit. I want to leave with my dignity still intact.

But I don’t.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh?”

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“I do?”

We have another beer. Then go to a different bar for a nightcap because that’s what “friends” do. It’s dark, nothing but candlelight and red wine.

I look at him from across the table and wonder how it is that of all the men in the world, I find this one attractive, interesting. I must be one fucked up dude.

At the end of the night, I hop into a cab, go home. I probably won’t hear from him until the next time.

Maybe then I’ll finally say it. Out loud.

A Juicy Moment

“Is that Juicy Couture?”

Juicy what? I followed the direction of his eyes. He was apparently referring to my new coat.

I’d just bought it at Barney's that week. No, I’m not that gay. Okay, maybe I am, but not when it comes to clothing. I’d never even heard of Juicy Couture and I don’t shop at Barney’s, not even during a blowout sale.

But a friend of mine gave me what is supposed to be the gay Holy Grail: a 200-dollar gift certificate to the Coop. Like giving a color TV to a blind man.

“Thanks,” I said as I unwrapped the gift, pulling out a red plastic card. I feigned what I thought was the appropriate amount of excitement and to make sure he knew I was appreciative, added, “Was just thinking I needed to buy a good coat.”

My friend looked at me like I just poured ketchup all over his prime rib.

Ten minutes. I was in and out with my new coat. Black, shiny with a fur trim on the hood. A little over the top but it was the most understated thing I could find. Didn’t even matter that the only size they had was too small. I knew I’d probably never come back again and besides, a little mid-section draft never killed anyone.

Then it happened. Like a high-school crush you develop over time, I actually grew to like it. I noticed every time I put it on I felt chic, trendy even. Who knew? There was a nelly little shopping queen in me this whole time. All it took for her to come out was some fake fur and down feathers.

It was love at third sight. I’d found my coat-mate.

Now someone’s asking me for the brand name and I feel like a man who’s forgotten his wife’s birthday. So I fake it.

“Yeah cool stuff.”

“I have the same exact one. Is yours a small?

“Yes.”

“Mine too. Where did you buy it?”

“Barney’s.”

Am I really having this conversation?

“I bought mine at Bloomingdale's.”

This is getting too much airtime. My eyes start to wonder to the sides, I’m desperately looking for other people in the room to rescue me but no one’s close enough to save me from the gayest moment since Ryan Seacrest sucked face with Terri Hatcher. Somewhere Judy Garland must be kvelling like a Jewish mother on graduation day.

“We should make sure we don’t accidentally walk off with the wrong coat,” he says to me as we arrive at the party. “I’ll put mine here. You put yours over there,” he points to the other side of bench.

“Cool.”

“In case things get all messed up, just remember I have a pair of black gloves in one of the pocket,” he says before curtsying off.

I’m not too worried. I know where he’ll be later. At Hiro. We’re all planning on going there next, after midnight. It’s New Year’s Eve.

We drink, we get drunk, we’re having a good time. At one point the man with the twin coat waves good-bye. He's off. An hour later, the party is dwindling down. We'll all getting ready to leave. I find my coat at the same place I left it. I put it on. But when I stick my hands in the pockets, a foreign object. I pull it out. A bundle of yarn. Two black gloves.

Bloomingdale’s boy walked off with my coat. After all those warnings.

I arrive at the club, check the coat that’s not mine and hold on to the ticket. It takes me 20 minutes to pin point him among the hundreds of half naked boys with stubble on their back. But I finally find him.

“Where’s your ticket?” I say, irritated.

“Huh?”

“Your coat check ticket, where is it?”

“Why?”

“Because I think you have my coat.”

“Nope. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the right one.”

“But there were gloves in the pocket. Black fingerless ones.”

“Mine have fingers.”

Suddenly, it hits me. A third coat. Same color, same make, on the same night, at the same party, on the very same bench. Black gloves in one of the pockets. What are the odds?

I contemplate going back but it's too late now. At the end of the night I head over to the coat check, hand in my ticket, and sadly get the coat I know is not mine. It's almost identical, but it feels different. It's not quite as shiny, though it could be just the bad lighting at the club. I know it shouldn't matter but it doesn't feel chic anymore. Feels used, a hand-me-down.

I open the jacket, look inside. Then I see it. A small difference. Minute. One letter that sets it apart from mine.

"M."

Well, at least the size is right, I think to myself, then head home.

One Way Ticket

I promised myself I would never tell this story. Swore it was going with me to the grave.

It’s bad.

Real bad.

Why am I telling you then? Well, it’s a good story for one. But more importantly, it’s how I met Austin.

I was dancing with a friend at Bank when he walked over. A vision. Tall, dark hair, big blue eyes, broad shoulders, and thick arms that could make you feel safe at night.

“Can I tell you something?” He asked.

“Sure.”

“I have the biggest crush on you.”

Just like that.

"Really?"

I have a crush on him too. A big one. But even though I know he's been single for a while, I haven't made my move. Can't. I could anger the gods just thinking about it. He's a Hanukkah candle. Can look but you can't touch.

Now he's standing in front of me in a club his hands on my waist. I should walk away but my legs, they won't move.

We dance a bit. I can feel his breath on my ear, his heart pounding underneath his shirt. Then, just as we're about to kiss, just at the moment a 60-piece orchestra would hit the crescendo in a romance flick, a clearing of the throat.

“I don’t do one night stands,” he says.

"Okay."

“But I’d like to see you again.”

I pull out my phone, turn it on. Blue on his face, his eyes, his clothes. I punch in the number, then look at him.

“It’s Austin.”

“Ethan.”

“I know.”

He says good-bye. He's about to leave.

"Wait..."

One last try.

“Can’t we just cuddle?” I say, a smile on my face.

He looks at me. I can tell he doesn’t trust my intentions. He knows.

“No sex?”

“Cross my heart, hope to die.”

“Let’s go.”

We head out, walk the five blocks to his apartment. It’s cold out.

“Do you remember my name?”

“Austin.”

“Do you remember when we met?”

How could I forget? This is where I go back. Tell you the story I never thought I’d tell.

John was an up and coming DJ with a regular gig at a small East Village bar. A cozy place where my friends and I used to hang out on Thursday nights. I remember the first time I walked through the door, saw him. Tall, lanky, beautiful face, a body that wouldn't quit. He was nothing short of stunning. It wasn't unusual for guys to trip over their step as their eyes caught the sight of John in his booth, his ear glued to his shoulder.

I’ll admit. I had my eye on him too, even though I knew he had a boyfriend. I think deep down I never thought he’d go for it, which is why I flirted. Shamelessly. But one day he bit. And before I knew it, we were in bed, his elongated muscles and smooth skin all around me.

It was one night. We never talked about it again. John had a boyfriend, I had Jewish guilt. And that was that.

Then one day as I'm at the bar, John's boyfriend walked in. Tall, blonde, thin-rimmed glasses. Cute. Nerdy cute. John's total opposite.

"Ethan, this is my boyfriend, Aaron."

A look, a smile. Trouble, capital F.

Aaron's being nice, a little too nice. He's chatty, his hand's touching the small of my back, then the back of my leg. His eyes are smiling at me, he's got that look. A smirk.

I'm sweating bullets. This is dangerous; I'm playing with fire. I should stop, walk away. But Aaron's too cute. He's got big hands.

Then, as John turns around looking for a record, Aaron grabs my arm, pulls me aside. We're in the bathroom. We're making out. He's on his knees. I'm going to hell.

The story doesn't end well. The gods, they don't like hubris. Aaron ended up telling John. John confessed to Aaron and I was caught in the crosshairs of two angry lovers.

Cold shoulders, looks that could kill, months of guilt and shame and the knowledge that I'm not above trash. The white kind.

I heard from friends John and Aaron split soon after that.

"Yeah, we kind figured if that happened, it wasn't a good sign," Aaron told me when I ran into him months later.

More Guilt, more shame. Lowest of the low. Gutter.

I bumped into John in Provincetown that summer. Was waiting for a table on Commercial Street when I noticed him having dinner with another boy. It was a first date, I could tell. Something about the way they looked into each other's eyes, the way their bodies leaned forward.

"What's up man?"
"I'm good and you?"
"Good, Ethan this is Austin, Austin, Ethan."

There was no hate in his voice. He was with someone new now. Life, funny that way.

I'd see them, John and his new boy, around. Always very close, always happy. They looked cute together. Then it happened. A crush. Nothing immediate. Took a while before I noticed how beautiful Austin was. More beautiful than John. Happens sometimes. Sometimes you don't see someone's magic right away. Then you see it and you wonder how you missed it.

There was something in Austin's eyes, a kind of tenderness. Wisdom too.

But with my past, our indirect history, I figured best to ignore it.

Now we're walking to his place in the East Village. It's nighttime and he's just told me he likes me.

Life, funny that way.

In his bedroom, in the dark, we get naked, and under the covers. We hug, we touch, but we have no sex. At one point he kisses me, soft on the lips. A good kiss. I can feel it in my toes.

"I've wanted to that for seven months," he says.

I feel like saying, "Yeah, me too." But I'm not that fearless.

I touch his body, his beautiful flat stomach. He sighs. I look into his eyes and I know I could have sex with him right now. He's mine for the taking.

But I don't.

"No sex remember?" I say.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He's not offended. He knows it means I like him.

In the morning I get up, go home. Amazed at the fact that this boy likes me. Amazed at life's incredible twists and turns. But even more amazed that in my 35 years on this earth, this is my first time "just cuddling."

A Sudden Tremor

It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Then, just like that, it wasn't. It was imperfect and funny and human. A story, mortifying at first, but with time, like a good bottle of Burgundy, it matured into something rich, opulent, delightful.

Back in 2000 Bobby Davis was the talk of Chelsea, not once but twice. The first time was over a sleek and rather clever ad campaign featuring a shirtless boy wrapped in tight blue jeans. An explosion of abs and muscles that had everyone south of 23rd Street salivating like Pavlovian dogs at the ring of a bell.

The picture, plastered all over the gayborhood to promote the latest house music compilation, wasn't unlike many other muscle ads. Hot guy, beautiful body. But for some reason it stood out. Maybe it was the model's incredibly chiseled torso, maybe it was the fact that his face was purposely hidden from view, making it sexier, more seductive. Whatever the reason, soon it had everyone wondering, who is the headless stunner?

The campaign got so much buzz, that for the next year, the company released another dozen CDs, each with the same beautiful model on the cover, always the body, never the face. An expensive, well-executed musical cock-tease that caught every eye on Eighth Avenue.

Word had it that the 13th and final CD would reveal the young man's identity. By then the secret cover boy had reached superstar status.

When the last CD finally came out, much to our surprise it was Bobby's face smiling at us from the jewel box cover. Quiet, introspective, Bobby was one of those kids who'd completely managed to escape our attention. At parties he'd sit quietly by himself or with his boyfriend never saying more than a few words. The quintessential fly on the wall.

Not anymore. Within days of the final release, Bobby became the toast of gayville. An instant sensation, his face and tight body, the subject of many late-night fantasies.

The second time Bobby made headlines was for a far less glamorous yet equally fascinating reason. I'd just returned from a long trip abroad when I was greeted with the news.

"Have you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Oh my God, you're not going to believe this."

"What?"

"You remember Jeffrey right, Bobby's boyfriend? Well, he was working on their home computer one day when he came across some e-mails Bobby had sent to another boy. Steamy love letters, some pretty heavy shit. Jeffrey was so upset he forwarded them to everyone, a mass e-mail that read, 'If you think you know Bobby, take a look at this.'"

"Really?"

"I know, horrifying huh?"

"I say good for him"

"You're not serious."

"As a heart attack."

"Don't you think it's a tad over the top?"

"Maybe. But he cheated, didn't he? Made his bed... quite literally."

A week later I bumped into Jeffrey on the street. His shoulders slumped, his eyes unfocused, he looked like a lost pup.

"Come on," I told him, "let's get you a drink. I'm guessing you could use one. Or ten."

Three vodka-tonics later Jeffery was coming back to life.

"You've heard," he finally said.

"Everybody's heard."

"He's the love of my life, you know..."

It hit me. Jeffery did what he did not because he's evil or vengeful. He did it because he was heartbroken.

"You made quite the impression with that e-mail."

"Yeah, I know. And you? What do you think?"

"I think I have a new-found appreciation for you."

He paused, cleared his throat.

"I talked to him last night, he says he's sorry."

"Are you thinking of taking him back?"

"I don't know yet."

"Sure you do."

A stare, half a smile.

"Just be sure to make him grovel a little. Keep him on his toes."

I never spoke to Jeffery about it again. I heard from friends they got back together, dated for another year or two before finally calling it quits. I bumped into Bobby a few times after that, but we never talked. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe it was too hard, that invisible scarlet letter hanging heavy around his neck.

I'd completely forgotten about the whole story when a friend approached me at Mr. Black's.

"There's a hot boy you need to see. Totally your type. Come with me."

Before I could say a word, Danny was leading me through a maze of people all the way to the other end of the bar.

"Check him out," he said pointing to the crowd.

I followed the direction of his index finger until my eyes landed on a guy in a red cap. The boy in question was dancing with some friends not far from where we stood. He had his back to us but even in the dark of the dance floor he was hard to miss. There was something sexy about him. Tight body, cute butt. I watched him for a bit, hoping to see his face. Then, as if by cue, the boy in red turned around, opened his eyes, looked right at me. Bobby.

"Hey how are you man?" He said as he made his way over.

A stretched out hand, a handshake, a hundred little goosebumps up my arms, down my spine, all the way to my crotch.

********************************************

"Should we go grab a bite to eat?" He asked.

Nine hours. It had been nine hours since we left the bar. Nine hours in bed.

Outside, in the daylight, Bobby was still handsome. Same smile, same pronounced dimples, same extreme shyness. I looked at him as we walked, trying to not to stare. There were some gray hairs I hadn't noticed in the dark, wrinkles under his eyes.

We ordered a drink, ate. Then it came. The explanation.

"I didn't cheat you know."

"Huh?"

"I didn't cheat on Jeffrey."

The story, Jeffrey's sad eyes... He's the love of my life, you know...

I look at him, not sure exactly what to say.

"Okay."

"We made out once, a stupid, drunk moment. That was it."

"I thought you guys had an affair."

"Nope."

"And the e-mails?" I blurted, then immediately regretted it.

"One e-mail that explained how guilty I felt about that night."

I look at him, he seems sincere. He cares what I think. I like that.

There were three dates after that. Three beautiful dates followed by great sex and even better cuddling. Comfort I hadn't felt in a long time with anyone. Something about this kid. He knows what to do, where to touch, what to say. He's cool. I think I like him. At night, in bed, right before we go to sleep, Bobby's hands around my waist.

"Good night," he says. His lips slightly grazing the back of my neck. Quiver, goosebumps, my whole body melting into the cavity made by his knees and arms. It's perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Then just like that, it wasn't.

All at once a rattle so loud, a tremor so frightening it woke me up. What was that? I open my eyes. My heart racing. I don't move. Please, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me it didn't happen. I say a little prayer, though I know it's useless. His knees are spooning the back of my knees. His crotch, the epicenter.

**************************************************

"You did what?"

"I farted on him," I tell Jim at dinner.

Jim drops his fork, his hand covers his mouth as he laughs.

"Oh my god. Did he notice?"

"Helen Keller would have noticed. I woke myself up, it was so loud."

"That's hysterical."

"I'm glad you find this entertaining."

"Did he say anything about it?"

"No. I haven't spoken to him since. It's been two days. He always calls the next day. He's not calling, he's never going to call."

"Stop being so dramatic, it's just a fart. He'll call."

"He's not calling. I farted on him, right on his lap. Oh my god, I'm the boy who farts."

Jim starts laughing. Unstoppable, loud. I'm laughing too. It's contagious, we're both in a restaurant hauling, holding our stomachs.

"I'm going to die alone." I say. "And gassy."

Before Jim can respond. A ring. My phone dancing on top of the table in a vibration that almost mocks me. I flip it open. Bobby's name flashing on the screen.

"Okay, maybe just gassy."

The Color of Envy

They say grass is always greener on the other side. Greener when you're single, greener when you're married. Thing is, no one tells you how much work it takes to get it that green, not to mention the stench of the manure needed to keep it that way.

After five long, entirely inexplicable years of bachelorhood, I can say there’s nothing about being single that’s enviable. Not the meaningless sex, not the deafening quiet of an empty house or the constant worry of catching something, even when using extra-strength condoms. Beige should be the color of envy, not green.

But every once in a while comes a moment that reminds you of why colors like fuchsia exist. When you realize it's nice where you are, on your side of the fence, having no one to answer to but your conscience. A moment of fun that lingers in your mind like a teenager outside a convenience store.

He was sitting at one of the tables not more than a few feet away. I'd seen him before. Not in person, a porn flick. Not really into porn. The few movies I've seen never did much for me. This one did.

Something about this kid. He had those squinty far-away eyes that suggested mischief, dark buzzed hair, the velvety kind, and fiery tattoos that crept up from under his T-shirt and onto his neck. He was a good ol’ bad boy. Even his dimples were more naughty than naïve. But his most prominent feature wasn’t his face or even his tight little body. It was his flawlessly round, incredibly plump bubble butt. I remember seeing the movie thinking, wow THAT’S perky.

He was there sitting with his friends, talking, having fun. Not sure how it started, but it was innocent enough at first. A word here, a smile there. Then, his hand grazed mine ever so slightly. A touch felt in two places at once. Barely making contact, full of sex.

We ordered drinks. Did very little talking. Not sure there was much to say. Besides, there were men all around him trying to get his attention. I watched him, amused by all the commotion. He was confident, outright cocky at times, beautiful.

It didn’t take long to see he had quite an effect on people. Guys stumbling all over each other, over me, to get to him. Animals after a fresh carcass. You could tell he was enjoying it. The aggressiveness of it all.

It went on for a while. He wasn’t ignoring me, yet seemed too busy for anything to happen. I was tired, a bit tipsy, it was late. Just as I was about to go home, an offer. Would I like to join him? He’s got a suite at the Waldorf.

"You're staying at the Waldorf?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it's the best."

A room bigger than my apartment, a shower bigger than my room. His bed, white, big, like it was made for four people not two. Clothes on the floor, condoms, lube everywhere, next to the bed, on the coffee table, in the bathroom. I can't help but think I'm not the first one here, not the second either.

He rips off his clothes, fast, like he's late for an appointment. His skin's tight, shiny, the way only a 20 year old can shine. He hops on the bed, within seconds I'm naked too. This is not about intimacy. This is sex. Aggressive, fast, impulsive, like tearing the wrapper off a Snicker's bar when you're really hungry. Empty calories, the good kind. His beautiful butt, his disproportionately big dick, the alcohol, the sweat, all one big blur. Then a sigh, two sighs. Then it’s over.

The both of us collapse, heavy breathing all around, echoes of sex bouncing off the walls. I look at him, he's all sweaty, still beautiful, miles away though are bodies are still touching.

I get dressed, give him a kiss on his moist forehead, head out. As I hail a cab, a smirk on my face, a notch on my belt. Something to remember when I’m old and wrinkled. Grandpa was handsome once. And shallow. Oh so shallow.

Almost everything in life has a color. Red's for warning, fear is yellow. Death, black and white's pure. Why is envy green, I don’t know. Maybe it’s ‘cause they say the grass is always greener on the other side. Maybe it's 'cause beige sometimes don't work. Maybe it’s ‘cause hot pink is just too gay.

The Man and the Butterfly

I sent my mom a copy of the last post. She’s never read my blog before. Come to think of it, she’s never seen any of my writing. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, she does. She’s asked more than once. I always say no. Too personal, I reckon.

But I thought she’d enjoy seeing what people thought of her writing. Maybe make up for the lack of emotion I showed when she first handed me the story. I copied the post and the 40-some comments and sent them her way. Should have been more careful. Nestled between all the heartfelt reactions, one line, her biggest fear.

“Your mother wrote over and over again that she already knew you were gay, but she placed so much importance on the ridiculous act of "coming out" that she ended up causing years of pain.”

“Should I have asked?” came her voice on the other end of the line. Sad, full of pain.

Could have kicked myself for being so careless.

“No, you did the right thing.”

“But maybe that reader is right. Maybe I should have just said the words?”

“I don’t think that would have been a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Can’t speak for anyone else but I’m glad it happened the way it did. I’m happy it came from me. My decision. My coming out. There’s comfort in that.”

“You know why I waited right?”

“I think so.”

“There’s a story…” She paused. “Can I tell you a story?”

I smile. My mother, her storytelling voice. For a minute I’m eight years old again.

“A man was strolling through a garden when he came across a tiny cocoon. He carefully placed it in his hand and took it home with him. He wanted to see it as it turned into a butterfly. He wanted to witness the beautiful transformation.

For days nothing happened. Then, a tiny quiver. He could see a small opening, not bigger than a dot at first. Then it grew wider. The man watched as the young butterfly tried to find its way out, pushing its weight against the surface in an effort to break free.

He watched for hours, mesmerized by nature. He imagined the moment the butterfly would finally break loose, spread its wings, fly. He wanted to be there when its wings, kissed by the sun, first reflected light with all the colors of the rainbow.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped. The butterfly wouldn’t move. It was as though it was unable to go on, as if it had gone as far as it could. The man then took a pair of scissors and cut the cocoon open, helped the young butterfly out.

He waited for it to spread its wings, fly into the horizon, but that never happened. He looked closely at the little creature. Its wings were disheveled, its body bloated.

What the man didn’t realize is that in an effort to help the young butterfly it had condemned it to a life of sickness. Because nature had designed the process so that when the young butterfly squeezed out of the cocoon, fluid would rush from the body into its undernourished wings.

What the man didn’t understand is that flight would only come after struggle. Without it, the butterfly was sentenced to a life without purpose, without health.”

My mother ends her story, her voice going back to normal.

“You did the right thing,” I tell her again. Then made up and excuse and hung up. Tears in my eyes. A mother can sense that, even thousands of miles away. Even through a phone line.

My Mother, Her Son

He was born with his eyes wide open. A beautiful, inquisitive, baby. Ten fingers, ten toes, a healthy smile. She can still remember that moment, the indescribable love she felt shooting out of her the second she laid eyes on him. From the moment she scooped him in her arms and looked into his deep blue eyes she saw it, felt it even. A certain spirituality she’d never witnessed before in any of her other children. She knew it in her gut. This boy was special.

The kid grew up to be smart, assertive, kind. He was full of tenderness, as though all the love she showered on him throughout the years had been absorbed inside. The two were attached, an invisible thread connecting his heart to hers. When her boy would stray even a little, the love string would tug at her chest, a pain so strong she thought she would die.

Yes, all mothers think their boys are special. But it wasn’t just her. Everyone who came in contact with the kid felt it, an overwhelming joy, an all-enveloping feeling of warmth. Magic.

She raised him without fear or anxieties. For the first time in her life it was easy, uncomplicated. Mother, son, and the natural course of nature.

He was her youngest, her baby. He wasn’t the biggest, or the strongest but he could hold his own. She liked watching him fight for his place in the world. At times it wasn’t easy. There were constant battles with his older siblings, especially the middle one. But he was smart, and quick and savvy which compensated his for his younger age and smaller size.

He was also a good student. She remembered how proud she felt during PTA meetings listening to his teacher talk about him. Her kid seemed to have it all. Beauty, brains, ambition.

It wasn’t until much later when she started noticing signs. Nothing big at first. Little things, small hard-to-read clues left for her to see. Some name calling in school, a comment from a perceptive teacher, and the fact that all his friendships were with girls.

Then the anger came. Not hers, his. She watched as her sunny, luminous kid was becoming burdened with dark silence, afflicted with rage. She could feel the blinds coming down on the windows of his soul.

She tried to talk to him but it was no use, he pushed her away. Ironic. She who made a living by making people open up, she who could unlock any heart with a simple word found herself helpless when it came to her own son. She didn’t have the key. She couldn’t even find the lock.

So she prayed. She prayed that she was wrong, that this was just a phase. But deep inside her awareness was slowly cooking. The truth was boiling. The timer on her consciousness was about to go off.

She tried to fight it. She refused to give it a name, a title. She wouldn’t admit that her boy wasn’t special, he was different.

She hoped he would talk to her, share what’s on his troubled mind. She wanted to help, ease his pain, but she realized he chose to go through it on his own.

He finished high-school with honors, but instead of happiness, sadness in his eyes. He was exceptionally beautiful, a handsome young man. There were muscles on his firm body, the features of an adult.

A short-lived romance with a beautiful girl had for a moment lightened up her world. She hoped against hope that maybe, just maybe this boy was simply a late bloomer. Just one of so many explanations she had stored in her arsenal. But when that relationship ended she sadly acknowledged that she could not think of one significant connection he’d made with a girl over the years. All his relationships were of a friendly nature.

Years went by and her boy was growing more melancholic. His sadness hovering above his head like a rain cloud in a Hannah-Barbara cartoon. She tried to get closer but couldn’t. It was during that time that her suspicion was taking form, becoming deeper, until even she couldn’t escape it. But even then she waved away the thoughts, as though they were a pesky fly.

Then one day he brought home a friend. A male friend. She studied the intruder carefully and cringed at the intimacy she sensed between them. There was nothing overt, but it was enough that she couldn’t ignore it. For a moment she was mad at her son for bringing this man into her home. For not allowing her to continue in her illusion. She wanted to cling to it forever. But she knew the price you pay for denial is distance.

One day she dared do what she had never done before. She said the word out loud during dinner with her husband. For a moment she was terrified, worried his father might not understand. But she had to talk to someone. She couldn’t hold it in anymore. The secret, it was suffocating her.

“I don’t care,” he told her. “He’s my son and if he’s gay, that’s okay. I love him no matter what.”

She looked at her husband with admiration. He had been able to say what she couldn’t acknowledge for so many years. She was surprised at how the word “gay” which had stood there in the middle of the room didn’t seem so frightening all of a sudden. She looked at the man who she’d been married to for more than three decades and couldn’t help love him just a little more.

But even then she didn’t confront her son. She waited. She waited because the truth wasn’t yet ready to be told, not by him, not to her. A friend had told her, “Go ahead! Ask him!” But she knew better than to push him. She knew he was getting ready. She knew she was too.

She thought about what would happen when he finally came out. Would she have to come out too? Who would she tell? What kind of mother would she would be?

Then one sunny summer afternoon as she was drying off some dishes at the sink she could feel tension in the air. It was palpable. Is this when all hell breaks loose? She heard him say the words.

“I have something to tell you.”

He was nervous, she had never seen him this way. His voice was cracking, the weight of the world clearly visible on his shoulders.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for you to say those words,” said her daughter who was also in the room.

Her daughter, the sensitive one had made it so easy. She had already known. She looked at her son, looked at her daughter and felt nothing but love and respect.

Then it was over. Relief on her son’s face. His forehead for the first time in years was smooth. And at that moment she felt only one regret. The energy wasted all these years. Wasted on hiding something irrelevant.

They sat down and talked. They talked all night. She wanted to know. When did he realize? Was this man or that man a friend or a boyfriend? She asked every question that’s been stubbornly nagging her in the back of her mind for the past decade. And she was happy to see him talk about it with such ease. Her son wasn’t different. He was special.

Years later she would get an e-mail from him. A long thank you note for the way they all handled that moment. He had told her in so many words that to this day when he tells the story of that night, his gay friends cry.

These words you just read, not mine. My mother’s. Years after my coming out she handed me a short story written in third person. I wasn’t ready for it back then. I remember reading it, then tucking it away. Never thought about it again. I think I may have been embarrassed by it. Or maybe I was just tired of talking about my sexuality. Yesterday I was cleaning out one of my drawers when I found her short story. I read it again. And this time, I cried.

A Blogging Myth

It's one of life's little secrets. When confronted with an uncomfortable question don't get bent all out of shape. Instead, pause, smile, then deflect it with another question. Works every time.

"Are you hung?"
Pause, smile.
"Why? Are you a size-queen?"

Then watch them squirm as they try to backtrack.

"Um... No! Of course not... I was just, you know... Kidding around."

Last night at the gym, a former trick. A question. One hundred ways to never answer.

"So is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"I heard you have a secret blog."

"You did?"

"That's what everyone says, but no one knows if it actually exists or if it's just an urban myth."

Smile. Pause.

"Who's everybody?"

"I don't remember. Everybody. I hear you rate all your dates, give them a review."

"Is that right?"

"Well do you?"

"Nope, but it sounds fascinating."

I didn't lie. I don't rate them and I hardly ever give a review. Per se.

"I heard that you really go into details. That you have like hundreds of hits a week. You can tell me, is it true?"

"No."

It's not hundreds. More like thousands.

"Come on. Tell me!"

"Tell you what?"

"Just say yes or no?"

"Yes or no?"

"That means you do have a blog."

"It does?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"No, I don't."

"So how did I rate? What was my review like?"

"So is this what this is all about? You want to know how good you are in bed?"

"Um...no I was just... you know... I'm just kidding."

"Of course you are."

"You suck."

I smile, then walk away. Works every time.

A Perfect Day

I met the most adorable couple today. Peter and George. They’ve been together for 47 years. George is in a wheelchair. Peter takes care of him. He cooks for him, cuts his steak for him. He helps him up the stairs.

They’re still in love. Not like all over each other in love. Old people in love. The way you finish each other’s sentences in love. The way you tease each other in love. The way you roll your eyes at each other in love.

I was introduced to George and Peter through my friend Justin. Justin’s my hairdresser. He’s straight. He’s been my hairdresser for 16 years. Really. My brother took me to Justin’s for my 18th birthday. I’m 34 now. Almost 35. I guess that means I know Justin almost 17 years. That’s a long time.

I love Justin. He’s family. Justin loves me too. Says I’m special. I don’t think I’m special, though it’s nice to hear.

Anyway. Back to George and Peter. They invited Justin and me to brunch at the Lowell Hotel. Have you ever been to the Lowell Hotel? It’s up on 63rd and Madison. It’s beautiful. Old. Classy. Foie gras and caviar kind of classy. Beluga. I actually had the foie gras. It was amazing. Like butter. Didn’t have the Beluga. Fish eggs. Yuck.

We went on a walk after brunch. Me, Justin, Peter, George. Justin pushed George’s wheelchair. I walked along with Peter. We walked and walked and walked. We walked until we stepped right into the Central Park Zoo. We saw seals. Polar bears too. Then we sat on a bench, watched people go by. We watched and watched and watched and watched. It was one of those perfect days. Sunny, clear, like God was in a good mood. We sat there watching. We watched until Peter said it was time for George to take a nap.

Justin, me, Peter, George then walked back to their apartment, helped George up the stairs. Wheelchair was heavy. I wondered how Peter and George manage when Justin’s not around. I said my good-byes, then took the E-train back to Chelsea.

On the train, I turned on my ipod. Then smiled all the way back home.

I met the cutest couple today. 47 years. Perfect. Like God was in a good mood.