Shades of Gray

texting cameron

"marry me?"

"if you stop hooking up like i have breakfast, sure."

"I'll have the mccameron breakfast meal for the next 20 years please."

"omg, prop 8 got overturned! did you hear?"

"hence the marriage proposal."

"oh. well, it's just that you're not very romantic."

"what are you talking about? i texted you as soon as i heard. you were the first person in california i proposed to."

(mumbles something inaudible)

"i'm totally romantic."

"prove it."

white picket fence. ny times sunday crossword. coffee in bed. little camerons running around."

"like i said, not very romantic."

"waking up sweaty from spooning. brushing our teeth at his and his sink. breakfast at a round kitchen table. a long drive to work in a gas-guzzling minivan. picking up kids from soccer practice. dinner. fish sticks. collapsing on a big white bed exhausted after a full, wonderful day. heaven."

silence.

"what? did i say something wrong?"

"nope. it' was just right. just right."

boy

a boy looks at his mom. he's wondering what his life will be like ten, twenty years from now. will he get married? have kids? will he be a  doctor and save lives? will he write the great american novel? 

 

boy grows up. he has a crush on a girl. he's popular. does well in class. everything is wonderful. he's happy. except when he's not. except when he notices something's different.

 

boy goes into the military. he's a good soldier. a paratrooper. he jumps off planes, fires m-16s. he's strong, muscular, driven. he's happy with himself. except when he's not. he knows. he's nothing like his fellow soldiers. he feels like a fraud.

 

his friends talk about the girls back home. they have stories of prom nights that end on the back seat of pickup trucks, heels over head. he has no stories to speak of, so he makes them up. he's a good storyteller. his friends call him "the stud." he feels like a fraud.

 

he immerses himself further in his duties. excels. he's stronger, faster, more focused than any of his colleagues. he gets noticed. his immediate officer takes a liking to him. becomes his mentor.

 

they talk a lot, he and his officer. long conversations about life. grown up stuff. they talk late at night when everyone else has gone to bed. at one point, as they're having one of their chats, boy falls asleep. just like that. mid-sentence. he's tired, hasn't slept in days. as he wakes up, his officer is kissing him. it feels good. he no longer feels like a fraud.

 

they move in together. a nice two-bedroom apartment. things go well. boy learns to live and love. boy learns to like himself. life is good. until it isn't. fights. cheating. yelling. tears. boy moves out.

 

boy moves on. he has other boyfriends, great boyfriends. he learns the meaning of true love. he gets his heart broken once, then a second time. in the process boy becomes a man.

 

he goes to college, then graduate school. finishes both with honors. he gets a great job, then a better one. he's good at what he does. the promotions come one after another. then he gets his big break. he's a star now. famous. he's happy with how life turned out. except when he's not.

 

he's 38, almost 39. he has no boyfriend. hasn't had one in years. he can't remember the last time anyone's made his heart race. what it feels like waking up with someone in bed. weeks turn into months, months turn to years. he's worried. he's worried that if he doesn't do something to break the cycle he'll find himself an old man, alone, with nothing to show for but a stupid career.

 

he looks in the mirror. there are still no wrinkles. no gray hairs. he looks good. better than good. the years have been kind to him. he should be happy. he should be jumping with joy.

 

instead he wonders what his life will be like ten, twenty years from now. will he get married? will he have kids? will he ever write that great american novel?

a boy looks at his mom. he's wondering what his life will be like ten, twenty years from now. will he get married? have kids? will he be a  doctor and save lives? will he write the great american novel? 

 

boy grows up. he has a crush on a girl. he's popular. does well in class. everything is wonderful. he's happy. except when he's not. except when he notices something's different.

 

boy goes into the military. he's a good soldier. a paratrooper. he jumps off planes, fires m-16s. he's strong, muscular, driven. he's happy with himself. except when he's not. he knows. he's nothing like his fellow soldiers. he feels like a fraud.

 

his friends talk about the girls back home. they have stories of prom nights that end on the back seat of pickup trucks, heels over head. he has no stories to speak of, so he makes them up. he's a good storyteller. his friends call him "the stud." he feels like a fraud.

 

he immerses himself further in his duties. excels. he's stronger, faster, more focused than any of his colleagues. he gets noticed. his immediate officer takes a liking to him. becomes his mentor.

 

they talk a lot, he and his officer. long conversations about life. grown up stuff. they talk late at night when everyone else has gone to bed. at one point, as they're having one of their chats, boy falls asleep. just like that. mid-sentence. he's tired, hasn't slept in days. as he wakes up, his officer is kissing him. it feels good. he no longer feels like a fraud.

 

they move in together. a nice two-bedroom apartment. things go well. boy learns to live and love. boy learns to like himself. life is good. until it isn't. fights. cheating. yelling. tears. boy moves out.

 

boy moves on. he has other boyfriends, great boyfriends. he learns the meaning of true love. he gets his heart broken once, then a second time. in the process boy becomes a man.

 

he goes to college, then graduate school. finishes both with honors. he gets a great job, then a better one. he's good at what he does. the promotions come one after another. then he gets his big break. he's a star now. famous. he's happy with how life turned out. except when he's not.

 

he's 38, almost 39. he has no boyfriend. hasn't had one in years. he can't remember the last time anyone's made his heart race. what it feels like waking up with someone in bed. weeks turn into months, months turn to years. he's worried. he's worried that if he doesn't do something to break the cycle he'll find himself an old man, alone, with nothing to show for but a stupid career.

 

he looks in the mirror. there are still no wrinkles. no gray hairs. he looks good. better than good. the years have been kind to him. he should be happy. he should be jumping with joy.

 

instead he wonders what his life will be like ten, twenty years from now. will he get married? will he have kids? will he ever write that great american novel?

the sexy eyes

i noticed it this morning. i got the sexy eyes. yep, the sexy eyes. that's when everyone starts looking like lorenzo lamas. oh sure, it's innocent enough at first. a world full of good-looking people. but don't be fooled. ain't nothin' but trouble. you see, looking at the world through the sexy eyes is like having your beer goggles on, only you're sober. and therein lies the problem. when you're drunk you're somewhat aware you've entered risk-taking territory. you (hopefully) know to second-guess your choices. you're prepared that if when you wake up in the morning and there's a stranger in your bed, he may not be calendar material. not so with the sexy eyes. they come without warning. which is why the moment i even suspect i may have them, i find the first cute(ish) guy and scratch the itch. it may sound a bit rash, slutty even. but walking around with the sexy eyes can lead to some rather undesirable consequences. like going into an ihop when you're on a strict low-carb diet, it always leads to unhealthy forking.

come round my little pretties. daddy gonna tell you a story.

the year was 2010 and ethan, who was much younger and handsomer back then, was trying to be good. yes, he had realized that hopping from one bed to another wasn't quite producing the fairy-tale ending he was looking for. so one day he made up his mind to stop whoring around and start having more respect for himself. basically, he turned into a girl. he decided to try this thing called “dating.” what's that you ask? well, apparently it's when you wait to have a conversation, maybe even a meal BEFORE getting popped (hey, sometimes you just need to get popped, so sue me). so little e. said goodbye to all his friends (who were big whores as well), packed up his things and went out to seek his perfect mate. he decided he would take things slow. he would only sleep with someone if a) it was at least a third date b) the man had something interesting to say, and c) the candidate wasn't a total slut just looking for a nice piece of ass (um, hello...have you seen it?). for months (ok maybe it was weeks, but still) ethan searched and searched and searched and searched. he went up the (murray) hill and down to the (west) village. north (of little italy) and south (of houston). no prince in sight. but even though he felt a tad lonely, he realized he was actually happy. he was doing something. he was changing his fate. he was surprised to find that not having sex wasn't as bad as he had thought. he had more time to do the things that he loved, like reading books and working out. for a minute he wondered, "why didn't i try this earlier?" he was still a bit annoyed at not finding mr. charming but thought, “well maybe now that i'm not looking, he'll just show up. like they do in the movies.” for a moment, life was full of possibilities. then one day ethan got the sexy eyes. at first he didn't know what to make of it. everyone around him was beautiful. it was intoxicating. nothing he'd ever experienced in his young life. he marveled at the pretty creatures around him. it was during that time when ethan met tim. tim was ogre. but because ethan was afflicted with the sexy eyes, he seemed handsome to him, dashing even. ethan and tim went out to dinner. they had a wonderful time. it was one of those perfect dates. sparks bouncing off the walls. ethan looked at tim and couldn't help but smile. but even though ethan wanted to sleep with tim (badly) he didn't. he stayed true to his promise. he would only sleep with tim after the third date. two full dates had gone by, and ethan and tim were still going strong. strolls through the park, hand-holding at the movies, talks about a trip to land called la-la. things were great. then it finally came, their third date. ethan could hold no longer. he was nervous and happy and filled with anticipation. could it be? did he manage to cheat his fate? all he could think of was getting in bed with tim, being naked with him. it had been months since he'd been with anyone (ok weeks, but still). they went over to tim's place, got undressed and after a little foreplay eventually consumated their relationship. when ethan woke up in the morning something was different. he looked at tim and didn't think he was at all charming (or good-looking for that matter). then he noticed things he'd never seen before. when tim ate, he chewed with his mouth open. he smelled kind of funny, and he wasn't interesting at all, in fact he was rather boring. at first ethan worried that maybe he'd lost interest simply because they had sex. but then it dawned on him, tim was an ogre. he had been under a spell this entire time. the spell of the sexy eyes. he hadn't found prince charming. he was just really really horny. from that moment on, ethan went back to his merry whorish ways. he realized that not having sex for a long time may sound nice, but having sex sounds nicer. he understood that the act of fornication isn't the end of a possible relationship, it's the beginning. and so he vowed to always be true to his libido, and never buy the car dinner before taking it out for a test-drive. the end. now excuse me boys and girls, there's a nice kid at the coffee shop giving me the look. he's cute, he's blond, and he's got a pulse. he's a sight for sore eyes. a cure for the sexy eyes.

a date at a coffee shop

let me set the scene for you. i'm at a coffee shop in the west village. one of them arrogant places that don't care for credit cards or wi-fi. but they have amazing coffee and no tv which is exactly what i'm looking for. it's nice, warm, comfortable. i'm sitting at a corner table facing an angry-looking, latte-drinking, black-clothes wearing, couldn't-give-a-fuck new-york crowd. it's perfect. still, it's been a while so i'm a tad nervous. keep checking my hair in the mirror, telling myself for the unmpteenth time that i look just fine. and i do. got my fuck-me jeans on (you know the ones that hug your butt just right), a tight white t-shirt, and my lucky underwear. i look around one last time, take a deep breath, then pull out my laptop and turn it on. i'm ready for my date with writing.

seriouslty, that's what i'm calling it. figure if i'm to woo the muses, i've gotta do it right. truth be told, i'm worried. terrified really. i think it's why i stopped writing. got caught in a swirling undercurrent of fear and hubris. the more readers i had, the stronger the current. who's reading? what do they think? will they be disappointed? will i be able to top my last story? and that, as any writer will tell you, is the surest way to losing your mojo. you see, writing is a lot like dating. we want what we can't have. the moment we get it, we move on. sad but true. the moment i started caring about what other people thought about my writing, my muse, mojo, talent, whatever you want to call it, got bored and dumped me. so now i'm using every trick in the book to regain my coolness, get back my attitude. i stare at the screen, that blank screen that's had me so scared and, as always, it looks at me with disgust. it's mocking me. it's a fucking bully.

screen: “so you want a piece of me?”

me (petrified): “yeah i do. what are you going to do about it?”

screen: “same thing i always do, kick your ass, show you who's boss, then send you home with your tail between your legs.”

me: “i'm not scared of you this time..." (I really am).

screen: “oh yeah? why's that? you found a spine to go with that vagina?”

me: “you're an ass.”

screen: “you're boring.”

me: “aww. i'm devastated. laptops... such a fickle, sophisticated crowd. especially you cheap 300-dollar netbooks.”

and with that, i feel my fears start to evaporate, my shoulders rising ever so slightly. i'm not intimidated anymore.

screen: “that the best you got? is this how you're planning on winning back your readers? uninspiring. you're uninspiring.”

me: “hmm. maybe i should trade you in for one of them shinny ipads. maybe then i'll be more inspiring.”

i tell my friend about my one-flew-over-the-cuckoo's-nest fight with my laptop, my fear of writing.

 

“you're worried about of what people may think of your writing? then write something filthy. that'll cure all your fears. the filthier the better.”

smile. filthy. sounds about right.

TO BE CONTINUED...

miss me?

should have never stopped. should have been more appreciative. turns out you don't own your talent. it's more of a renter. you're lucky if you get a two-year lease. i was fortunate to tap into it for as long as i did. like a surfer riding a really good wave. now i'm desperately searching for the next big tide. no wind in sight.

used to be a pretty good writer. had a popular blog with thousands of readers. beautiful short stories about love that came with little or no effort. then, just like that they stopped showing up. i'd sit in front of the computer and stare at an empty screen. for a long time i searched for that elusive magic. nothing but utter darkness. until one day i stopped trying. writers call it a block. it felt more like an abandonment. poof. maybe my muse got bored, moved on to someone hotter, more interesting. well, i'm determined to woo him back (what? i'm gay. my muse has a penis). i've been meditating (if you knew me you'd realize how huge that is, all that light within bullshit makes me want to hurl). but alas, i've reached the point of desperation. no pride, no shame. like a man trying to win back an ex-boyfriend, groveling is my starting point. a friend told me, "just write. don't think. don't look back. let your thoughts hit the page." and so that's what i'm doing. typing away without a care in the world. and so to you, my apologies. you get to read my raw, unedited unpolished thoughts. no fixing, no cleaning up, no trying to be clever. I'm taking off my literary makeup. i warn you, it ain't pretty, but it is real. nice to meet you. i'm ethan by the way. who the fuck are you?

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 straight into the hands of the boy he liked, 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

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.

I'm sweating bullets. This is dangerous; I'm playing with fire. I should stop, go home. 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 actually was. Happens sometimes. You don't see someone's magic right away. Then 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."