Shades of Gray

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, all i can say is, there’s nothing enviable about being single. 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 liquor 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.

He was there with his friends, talking, having fun. Not sure how it started. A word here, a smile there. Then, his hand grazed mine ever so slightly. A touch felt in two places at once.

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 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. 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.

Foolish Serenade

"Foolish heart, hear me calling
Stop before you start falling
Foolish heart, heed my warning
You've been wrong before
Don't be wrong anymore."

He sings to me. Messages on my voicemail. Out of the blue, out of tune, completely out of his mind. Cheesy electronic love notes that would scare the shit out of me if they weren't so goddamn funny.

It's been almost two months since that night, his question, his beautiful body. And though I know nothing can come out of this, I let him in, just a little more. Can't help it, I like him.

"This is you," he tells me after the chorus is over. "You, trying to act all cool around me when we met."

I laugh. If he only knew.

A week later, another serenade. Always recorded, never live.

"I'm driving up to my parents home," he says. "I heard this song and I thought of you."

Smile.

"Now keep in mind the guy in the song is saying one thing, but it's the opposite that's true."

Music starts playing in the background, I hear him clearing his throat. His voice, horrible, like a dog barking.

"Every time I think of you..."

Straining, clawing his way up to an impossibly high note.

"I always catch my breath..."

This is on the borderline between cute and creepy.

"And I'm still standing here, and you're miles away..."

Definitely cute.

"... and I'm wondering why you left?"

I smile. This is so silly. And yet strangely romantic.

"I ain't missing you at all. Pause. Missing you. Pause. Since you've been gone, pause... away. I ain't missing you. Pause. Missing you. Pause. No matter what my friends say."

He goes on a couple of more stanzas, which makes it all the funnier. How does he do it? Get away with that? Interesting. Things that usually freak us out are completely acceptable, even endearing when it comes from someone we like.

A week later, as I'm heading out to work, another message. This time no introduction's needed. It's Mariah.

"I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t love you so..."

Quick, high pitch, outright awful.

"I should have held on tight I never should have let you go..."

I burst out laughing. People all around me at Starbucks give me a funny look.

"When you left I lost a part of me..."

This kid's weird. Funny, but weird.

"It’s still so hard to believe...Come back baby please 'cause we belong together."

Then he stops. Music ends abruptly.

"Hey Ethan," He says into my voicemail. "Don't blow it!"

The Situation

“I can’t believe you just did that. How do you do it? You should be teaching that shit," he says, eyes wide open.

When did I become so manipulative?

I look at the boy in front of me. His eyes, shining with admiration. He’s impressed by what he just saw. Hell, I’m impressed too. It shouldn’t be this easy.

I met Mark two, maybe three weeks ago at the premiere of his new movie. I liked him. Cute, tall, dark hair, big brown eyes, and a wicked, quirky sense of humor.

The director, a friend of mine, knew I had a bit of a crush on him, sat me next to Mark at the screening. Then, during one of the scenes, a whisper.

"That's me," he said about the silhouette of a naked man.

"Really?" I say more mischievously than surprised. The man on the screen is standing in a profile, he's, um... big.

"A-huh. The actor who was supposed to do that scene was sick that day, so they asked me to do it."

I tilt my head ever so slightly, "I can see why."

He laughs.

We had a couple of drinks that night at a bar, after the movie. I thought things were going well. There was no doubt in my mind I was taking him home. Then, out of the blue:

"Well, I really have to split. I have an early morning tomorrow," he said as he was getting up.

"You do?"

"Yes, but if you want I'd like we can exchange numbers?"

I called him a few days later but never heard from him. Two weeks later, a ring.

"Hey man, sorry about not calling. I keep getting confused, is it two days, or two weeks you're supposed to wait before calling someone back?"

I laugh.

"You're forgiven."

We met at Bowery Bar that night. He was there with his best-friend-straight-roommate, Jason. The three of us are talking, having a good time. Mark's flirting but not overtly. He's with someone, a straight guy. I keep hoping we could be alone but Jason, he won't leave.

"So, any cute girls you like around here?" I finally ask his friend, "You know, you're probably the only straight guy around. Easy. Like fish in a barrel."

The boy takes a look, sees a girl, zeros in on her. She's nothing spectacular, but I can see why she's attractive. She's a walking advertisement for milk. She's Elsie.

"You like her?" I ask.

He nods, but doesn't make a move. A shy one. The girl is chatting with a friend. Cute guy, looks like he just stepped off a bus from Jersey City.

A few steps, a tap on a shoulder, a friendly smile.

"What's your name?"

"I'm Cindy."

"Hi Cindy, I'm Ethan, nice to meet you. Can I tell you, you're beautiful."

"Oh, you're so sweet. This is my friend, Abe."

"Hi Abe, Ethan."

I focus back on her, "You're too cute."

"Not too bad yourself." she says. "If you were straight, I wouldn't kick you out of bed."

"Thanks."

"Except to fuck you on the floor."

I laugh. She's Jersey all the way, but she's funny.

"I'm so rude." I tell her. "This is my friend, Jason."

As if on cue, Jason moves in, there's a smile on his face. A grateful one.

I look at Mark, my eyes saying, "follow my lead."

"Abe, I'd like you to meet my friend Mark."

Mark says hi to the boy, still not following me. Then sees Jason and Cindy talking, chummy. He gets it. Coin, dropped.

Mark and I chat up Abe who tells us he's going to Rutgers University where he's studying public relations. He's got spiky black hair with faint honey-brown streaks, dark eyes and way too many gold chains around his neck. Somehow though, he pulls it off, he's still hot, in a Kiss-Me-Guido kind of way.

We're drinking. One, two, three, drinks. We're all hitting it off. I'm getting a bit wasted but that's okay because everything's going according to plan. Jason's with Cindy, and Mark and I have cornered her gay friend to give the straight boy enough time to charm the pants off her. Literally.

Then I do what I sometimes do when I get drunk, I get friendlier. Abe is close, real close. His hand is around my waist, he's talking to me. I can feel his breath on my ear. That's when my hand slides down, just a bit, enough to grab his left cheek.

"Dude. What's that all about?" He said as he stepped back, "do we need to take this outside?"

For a moment I thought he was joking. Take what outside? Then, I realize. Me and my stupid hands have somehow stumbled on the closeted Jersey-guy. One minute he's talking about checking out the Pier Dance, the next he's defending some bruised honor, arms flailing every which way.

I look at Mark, he has that, what-the-fuck look on his face.

"Dude, sorry about that, wasn't serious," I tell Abe.

"Do we need to take it outside?"

He's not letting go.

"Man, I'm sorry, really. Didn't mean to offend you."

He's still not convinced.

I look at Mark, he's actually worried.

"See this guy here?" I point at Mark, "he's my boyfriend."

Mark, panic.

"You don't have to worry," I tell him. "Really, didn't mean anything by it."

And that was it. Somehow I found the right words, the right code to defuse the situation. Like air out of a tire, hiss all around. Abe's eyes softened a bit, his shoulders, down ever so slightly.

"Really?"

He looks at Mark.

"Is he really your boyfriend?"

"Yes, we'll be together three years in August," Mark tells him. He's good. He says it so quickly, so naturally, the guy actually believes him. He walks away.

For a moment, silence. Then Mark, laughing, a big laugh, one that comes bellowing out. He's seems impressed by the way I handled it all, how I never quite lost my cool.

I look at him. He's not mad, just amused.

"Three years in August, huh?"

"Yeah, but I'm thinking of dumping you. You're fresh."

We get another drink, forget about the boy, the "altrication." We're having fun. I notice Mark's more attentive, his body's closer, almost touching mine. This experience has brought us together, shattered whatever ice was left to be broken.

Then, just as I'm about to suggest we go back to my place. Abe, in front of me, madness in his eyes. He's angry. He's also slightly drunk.

"Do we need to take this outside?"

Shit. Not again. I make a promise to never touch another ounce of vodka for as long as I live, and if I do, to never, ever grab someone's butt without their explicit permission. In writing if possible.

"No man, remember? We already settled this. We're cool."

I don't know what else to do. I'm actually appealing to his drunken sense of recollection.

"I feel like we should take it outside," the boy insists.

Mark steps in, puts himself between me and Abe. He's about to say something but I stop him.

"No it's okay." I say. "Abe and I obviously need to talk."

"Are you sure?"

"No, not really."

I follow Abe a few steps, then he stops, turns around, looks at me. Hell, loose.

"Dude, I need to know, do you grab everyone's ass like that?"

There's no way to get out of this one, I might as well go out with a bang.

"No, No." I say all horrified. "Like THAT only the cute ones."

I'm waiting to see his reaction. I'm getting ready to fight. Instead, a smile on his face. He's maybe a bit crazy, but he's still got a sense of humor.

"You're cool bro."

Sigh. Relief. My heart descending back from my throat to my chest. Bullet, dodged.

We go back to to Mark and Cindy who are waiting, like contestants on game show, to see which one of us comes out, which one of us has been eliminated.

Mark looks at me all confused.

"How is that possible?" he asks when we show up, Abe's arm around my neck. "A second ago he was about to hit you!"

The four of us chat a bit. Then, just as everyone's about to leave, Abe slips me his number.

"Call me sometime," he says. He's drunk, and something tells me, not so straight.

Mark looks at me. Stunned.

"I can’t believe you just did that. How do you do it? You should be teaching that shit," he says.

At this point I'm too drunk to go home with anyone. I say good night, get into a cab, head home.

The next morning, a message from Mark.

"That's clearly the most amazing thing I've ever seen."

I laugh, then text back, "You CLEARLY haven't seen me naked."

The Marriage Proposal

"So you want to marry me?" He asked jokingly. The way people joke when they want to know.
"Sure!"
Surprised by my answer. Quick. Loud. Unfailing.
Silence.
"Did you hear that?" I ask, still shocked. My stupid mouth.
More silence.
Shit.
"I did." comes the delayed response, awkward, like one of those CNN reporters in Baghdad.
"Good. Now don't blow it."
I can hear him smiling.
"Just as long as there's no pressure."

Cameron

We spend a lifetime putting up walls. With every tremor, every earthquake, they grow taller, more impenetrable.

Experience teaches us to be careful of people, of Trojan horses.

With time we come to depend on these walls, rely on their protection. Until one day a boy walks by, touches the stone. The walls come tumbling down.

"So what makes you happy?" He asked over coffee.

My eyes wide open. I look at him, confused, as though he'd just spoken a foreign language. No one's ever asked me that before.

I think about it for a moment. "The smell of a new book," I finally tell him.

He smiles, sips his coffee.

I can't take my eyes off him. There's something about this boy, something I've never seen before. Can't help but think about the fact that as inquisitive as I am, it's never occurred to me to ask anyone that simple, wonderful question. I want to tell him so many things but I don't. The walls, they won't let me. Instead I stare, get lost in my thoughts.

"Where did you go just now?"

My mind's eye dissolves back into the present, to the boy in front of me, his green eyes.

"Nowhere."

"Liar."

I met Cameron two days earlier at a cemetery. Was there at the invitation of my friend Rick to see a movie of all things, a screening of Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

"Everyone brings food and booze. It's one big picnic," he said. "You'll like it."

"Is it a gay thing?" I ask him.

"Nope. It's an L.A. thing."

Rick and I arrived at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery around 7:00 P.M. The place was already packed with people sitting on plaid blankets sipping white wine out of plastic cups. There was something eerie and strangely beautiful about the whole thing. Between marble tombstones and neatly manicured lawns, people talking, eating, laughing.

We found a spot, pulled out our blankets, waited for the movie to start. That's when I noticed him. He was standing in line for the bathroom not more that a few feet away. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, and those eyes, as green as envy.

"I'll be right back," I told Rick as I made my way over carefully. Was hoping to strike up a conversation, find out who this guy was. But by the time I got in line three people had managed to squeeze ahead of me.

I stood there, looking at him over the heads of unsuspecting strangers, waiting for the right moment, the right words. Ten, 15, 20 minutes, eternity. Then, just as I was about to say something, Rick showed up. Tipsy, flamboyant, loud.

"Whatcha doin' dog?"

"Waiting for the bathroom."

"Don't take too long, the movie's about to start." he said then curtsied off.

The green-eyed boy in front of me gives me a look. I know what he's thinking.

"Who was that?" He finally asked. Ice, broken.

"That's my friend," I said. "My very platonic drunken friend."

He smiles. Dimples. My weakness.

Then, his turn comes up for one of the porta potties. But instead of moving forward, he stops, looks at me.

"Do you really need to go?" He asks.

"Huh?"

"To the bathroom."

"Yes," I lie.

"Because I don't. Why don't you go. I'll wait for you right here."

Bold. Fearless. His cards, in plain view. He's been waiting for me this whole time.

"I'm Cameron by the way."

* * *

"What took you so long?" Came the question from the other end of line.

"What?"

"To call."

Wasn't ready for that question, that kind of forwardness.

"I said I'd call in the morning. It's 11:30," I say almost defensively.

"New Yorkers, pussies."

"Didn't want to seem too eager," I finally tell him. It's as much as I'm willing to admit.

He laughs.

I invited him to go to a barbeque at my friend's house that night. Cameron showed up on time, wearing a lime green t-shirt, chewing bright green gum.

"Impressive," I tell him.

"What?"

"Your gum. It matches your shirt, brings out the color in your eyes."

He pulls it out, looks at it, then smiles.

"Oh yeah, that," he says. "I like to color-coordinate. Why? Too much?"

He's funny. I like that.

My friends like him too, I can tell. They're flirting with him, shamelessly, even those with boyfriends. One goes as far as giving him a quick back rub. I like that's he's the center of attention. I like that at the end of the night, I'm the one who gets to take him home.

I step back, watch him interact with the crowd. He's surrounded by a group of men who are clinging to his every word. Now and then he looks up at me, smiles, his eyes saying, "Don’t fret, I'm all yours."

At one point he grabs me, takes me aside. "I like you," he says, then pauses, "something about you."

As the evening wraps up, we say goodbye to my friends, head over to his apartment. We lay down on his bed, fully clothed. The tension has been building up for two days, but he's in no rush. He takes his time with me, exploring every inch, as if not to offend any particular part of my body. There's tenderness in his touch, in his eyes. Not something you'd expect from a six-foot-two guy.

"You're beautiful," he says, his hand on my chest. It doesn't sound forced or corny. I want to reciprocate but I don't. It's those gates, my fears, the walls.

We have sex. Incredible, passionate, mind-blowing. The kind that ends with two people staring at the ceiling in a haze, catching their breaths. Damp sheets, sweaty faces, the green in his eyes, a hundred times greener. This is my favorite moment, right before you fall asleep. Right before everything goes quiet.

In the morning we get dressed, head to Starbucks. As I sit there sipping my coffee, a question.

"So what makes you happy?"

Incredibly simple, simply incredible.

I want to let him in, but I can't. Wall's too high. Instead I wonder if he'd still be that honest if we shared the same zip code.

That night I fly back to New York. To my life, my job, my world. I notice I'm smiling more. But even though I like this boy and the effect he's had on my mood, I know how it goes. Boy goes on vacation, boy meets boy, boy sleeps with boy, boy goes home. Boy gets e-mails every once in a while. Boy moves on.

There are 3,000 reasons not to get emotional. And so I don't.

Cameron follows the script at first.

"I miss you," he messages, three exclamation marks, one smiley face.

"You do?"

"Wish you were here," he continues.

"Likewise."

"Thinking of you," texts the boy.

Then, just as I think it's about to fade, move into its rightful place in the past, a question. This one does more than just confuse me, it takes my breath away.

"Is there a reason why you're being so reserved?" he asks. "I don't want to lose interest if there's interest to be had."

And just like that, they fall. The walls, they come crumbling. Fast, furiously. I realize that although this boy may not be the one, he comes close. And that alone gives me hope.

If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

Something’s different. I don’t know what. Just is.

On the E train, a girl wearing thin-rimmed glasses in the seat in front of me. She's hunched over a book, lost in the story that's unfolding in her lap. All of a sudden, she looks up, startled. The doors are about to close on her, on Penn Station. She leaps out, catlike. A quick, precise, elegant escape. Nothing but a light breeze and the faint smell of lavender.

I smile. A reader. A dying breed. Caught between the pages of a good story, immobilized, trapped. Not all the megaphones and bells in the world could tear her away.

I go back to my own book, its beautiful prose, graceful imagery. It’s brilliant. I have to stop every so often to absorb what I just read, the elegance of it all. Amazed at the writer whose first book was nominated for the Booker. Even the title gives me chills.

It was "Zach" who turned me on to it.
"Was just reading your blog," he texted a few days earlier.
"You were?"

I thought he’d say something about my pathetic love life, my failed attempts at dating. Instead all he wrote was, "Have you read 'If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things?'"

“Zach,” I realize, also a reader.

So was the sales guy at Barnes & Noble. When I asked about the book his eyes grew wider, his whole face, nostalgia. A moment of recognition.

"It's the best book I've read in years," he said.

You could just tell, this man, like “Zach,” like the girl on the subway, an addict of fiction, salt of the Earth.

I’ve never been one of them. Not quite. I’ve always liked reading. Usually in the middle of one novel or another. But now something’s changed. I don’t know when. Just has.

Al Franken, Joan Didion, Elie Weisel, Jhumpa Lahiri. The Lost Language of Cranes, The Devil in the White City, A Million Little Pieces, the Kite Runner. There are more. Stacks of books consumed over the last few weeks on my bed stand, all earmarked, bloated with use, like carcasses after an overindulgent meal.

And not just in my bedroom. I carry a book everywhere. On the subway, at Starbucks as I’m waiting for coffee, on my way to work. Read-walking, entranced, in a daze. It's a miracle I haven't caused a multi-vehicle accident yet.

Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe it’s just a much-needed break. From the world, from dating, from men.

Maybe this is the natural progression of life, curling up with a novel instead of a date.

Or maybe, just maybe I'm becoming a nerd.