Men Who Love Men (23 page)

“I really am happy for you,” I tell him.

He stands, reaching down to kiss me on the forehead like the Good Witch of the North. “Take care of yourself, Henry,” he says. “Promise?”

I nod.

“Come on,” he says. “Let me help you back up to the street.”

“I’ll be fine. I want to sit here for a while longer.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “You haven’t eaten your breakfast.”

I nod. “I’ll save it for later. Can I give you some money?”

“It’s on me. Or rather, it’s on Eddie.”

“Thanks.”

Shane cocks his head looking down at me. “You sure you’re all right?”

“No,” I admit honestly. “But I want to give it a try on my own.”

He smiles. He gathers up his trash and turns to face me one last time. He blows me a kiss. I smile.

Then he heads up the beach and is gone.

I sit on the overturned boat and watch the waves for probably close to an hour. Guys with their dogs pass. A mother and father with a toddler running after them slosh barefoot through the surf. Finally I stand. The pain is still there, but I manage to trudge across the beach without falling.

I take it as a sign that I’m going to be okay.

T
hree days have passed since I saw Shane, and I am a man transformed.

“Well,” I say to Gale, “what is it going to be?”

Our eyes hold. I do not back down.

Gone is the passive Henry Weiner who’s allowed himself to be lured into pseudo-relationship for too long. This time, I will not endure being asked once again to leave his apartment just as things start to get heated.

It took some effort to get to this new mindset. When I realized that—due to my Labor Day focus on Shane—I’d forgotten to call Gale as I’d promised, I quickly punched in his number and left a message on his voice-mail. “This is Henry,” I said, summoning all the authority I could muster. “Call me. We are having dinner on Thursday night and then we are seeing Maggie Cassella’s show before it’s over. I’ll be at your house at seven.”

Well, he didn’t call back right away. For a day and a half I waited, suddenly doubting the wisdom of my newfound aggressiveness. I think Gale’s hesitation suggested he was struggling with the idea of someone else taking control. I was just about to steel myself and call him again—Shane’s words “Stop being so afraid of what you want” echoing in my mind—when my cell rang. It was Gale. “Can we make it seven thirty?” he asked.

“No,” I said, refusing to give an inch. “It won’t allow us enough time for dinner before Maggie’s show.”

He grunted, but agreed. I’d won that round.

Now, I faced the greater challenge. Dinner had been fine, some laughs, some good discussion, and then, much to his surprise, Gale had adored Maggie, proclaiming, “She’s not like most lesbians.” In my head, I filed away his apparent dyke-phobia, vowing to confront him on it in the future.

So many layers of protection seemed wrapped around this guy. If I want him—and I’ve come to believe that I do, that he may be the One—I’m going to need to peel them away one at a time.

“So,” I repeat, looking over at him, “what is it going to be?”

“I think you’re being unfair, Henry,” Gale says.

“Unfair? I’m not the one who keeps pulling away when things start getting good.”

We’ve come back to his apartment, as usual, and in his doorway we shared a kiss. Once again my hands were all over his hard back and round butt. But, true to form, Gale extricated himself, excusing himself so he could take a pee. When he came out of the bathroom, I lowered the boom.

“Gale,” I said, “if you’re going to ask me to leave before we have a chance to make love, I’d like you to tell me now, so that certain, er,
expectations
don’t get raised.”

I can tell he isn’t used to such directness. This new, assertive Henry Weiner is making him nervous.

He assumes a typical defensive posture, his arms crossed over his chest. “How can I know if I’m ready until I’m there, in the moment?” Gale asks me. “How can I predict how I’ll feel at any given time?”

“All I’m saying is, if you’re still not ready to go there with me, I just want to know. I’m not going to try to force myself on you. I’d just like to leave here on my own accord for a change. I’m tired of being
asked
to leave.”

“You have no idea what you’re asking me, Henry.”

“Yes, I do. I am asking you to overcome your fear.”

Gale’s face goes white. He looks away.

I try a softer approach. “What was it, Gale? You say your family was never all that religious, but you have some fierce antagonism against religion. Did someone foist upon you the idea that sex was bad? Is that why are you still a virgin after all these years?”

“I’m not a virgin,” he says in a small voice.

“But you said—”

“I said I’d never done it with a guy before.”

I sigh. “So you’ve had sex with women.”

“One woman.”

“Okay. And now you feel weird being a man who’s having sex with another man.”

He gives me a strange smile. “You could say that.”

I approach him and touch his cheek with the back of my hand. “Is this okay?”

Gale closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“How long were you with this woman?”

“Six years.”

“Did you love her?”

“I thought so. At first.”

“Did she take it hard when you told her you were gay?”

He opens his eyes and looks at me. “That’s not how it happened, Henry.”

“Tell me then.”

He moves away. “You know, Henry, you have a lot of nerve. You think I can just come back here after eating tofu burgers with you and spill my guts? That I can open up to you about my whole life and the way I feel about things just because we shared a few laughs at a comedy show?”

“Yes,” I say. “I was actually hoping for exactly that.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you.”

He flashes those intense eyes at me. “Do you? Or are you just lonely, Henry? And am I merely convenient?”

I shake my head. “Gale, you are
far
from convenient.”

He’s fired up. “What’s the most important thing—the most basic, underlying element—that you need from a lover? Tell me, Henry. What is it?”

I’m at a loss for a moment. Gale’s tendency to ask such absolute questions can be jarring. “Honesty,” I finally utter.

“Be more basic than that,” he challenges me.

“What’s more basic than honesty?”

He smirks. “Henry, we are talking right past each other.”

“Well, if we are, I don’t know what more to do about it.”

Gale turns away. “I like you, too, Henry. But I can’t be what you want.”

“You don’t even
know
what I want!”

He gives me an eye over his shoulder. “Do
you
?”

“I thought so when I walked in here. I thought I wanted you.”

Gale lets out a long sigh. “I know I’m risking never seeing you again by saying this, Henry,” he says. “But I’m saying it anyway.
Good night
.”

I feel the blood rise in my face. Now I’m angry. “So once again,” I say, “keeping your control over a situation is more important to you than pursuing a relationship. You’d rather throw me out again than talk to me.”

“Hey, you’re the one who set the terms.”

“Fine.” I turn to leave. “I’m not sure what you had in your last relationship, Gale, but I think you’ll find absolutes just don’t fly in the real world.”

“Thank you for dinner, Henry,” he says coldly. “I had a lovely time.”

I don’t even respond. I just head out his door and back down the stairs to the street.

“Henry.”

I look up. Gale stands at the top of the stairs.

“Let me know if you ever figure out what’s the most important thing you need in a lover,” he says. “I’d be curious to know.”

He heads back inside.

Why did I ever think I could make a relationship with Gale work? One more of Henry Weiner’s delusions. I don’t think I’ve ever met a greater control queen. I’m fuming, literally hot under my collar. And my anger stems less from the fact that Gale has kicked me out of his house once again, but because he remains so stubborn in his refusal to yield, even just a little bit.

Okay, so maybe I bungled it by being too assertive. Maybe I should have handled the whole thing more gingerly. Maybe I shouldn’t have set the terms quite so severely, and let the night just unfold. But I wasn’t getting anywhere with him by going slow and easy either.

I head back down Commercial Street. With Labor Day having come and gone, the crowd on the street is thinner. The whole pace of the village has slowed down, as if the entire population had just exhaled a collective sigh.

I suppose that’s going to be the end of Gale and me. I can’t see how we could pick up and try it again. It’s over, before it ever really began.

And it’s a shame, really. I liked Gale. I didn’t like the arrogant stubborn prick he could be, but occasionally I glimpsed another Gale: smart, vulnerable, sensitive. And one of the best kissers I’d ever encountered.

I suddenly feel overwhelmingly sad. All at once, my body becomes heavy, and moving my legs to walk takes considerable effort. Part of it is the lingering pain of my bike accident; my whole right side is black and blue, and working out at the gym has proven impossible these past few days. But I know it is much more than that. My body, like my mind, simply seems to be shutting down. I am tired—so fucking tired—of the emotional rollercoaster of dating, of searching for love. I need to get off. I need to stop.

“Hi, Henry.”

I’ve paused to regain my equilibrium and I notice, sitting on the steps of the post office, is Martin.

“Hi,” I manage to say.

He rises and approaches me. “You okay?”

“I’m just a little”—how to put it?—“bruised.” Yeah, that says it all. Bruised in body, mind, and spirit.

“How did that happen?”

I laugh. “Life.” I see he doesn’t get the joke. “And a bike accident,” I tell him. “I took a flying leap over the handlebars a few days ago.”

“No broken bones?”

I shake my head. “Just stiff muscles.”

“Maybe a massage would help.”

I nod. “Yeah. Good idea. I should go see Will,” Will being our local masseur.

Martin’s smiling. “I was making the offer myself.”

Oh, man. Is he hitting on me? I can’t deal with this right now.

“Um, look, I need to get back to the guesthouse,” I say, forcing my legs to move again. “Take it easy, Martin.”

He nods as I push past him back down the street. I hate to be so abrupt, but I’ve got to let him know that I’m just not interested. Martin’s a nice guy but—

Give me one good reason for rejecting Martin out of hand. And don’t you dare say he’s too old!

Shane’s voice.

But he
is
too old! What the hell would we have to talk about? When I was twelve, he was twenty-four. I didn’t even yet know I was gay, and he was already out there disco dancing to the Village People. Growing up, we didn’t watch the same TV shows, listen to the same music, or learn the same things in school. If we tried a relationship, we’d have no cultural references in common. It would be a disaster!

Of course I know there are many intergenerational relationships that seem to work just fine. But it simply would not work for me. I want a lover who will get my jokes, understand my points. I want to be able to say, “That is so Alice in Chains” and have him understand exactly what I mean. Because if he’s lived the same experiences I have, then he knows me. Or at least, he’s got the tools to know me.

By the time I get back to Nirvana, I am ready to drop. I could fall asleep standing up. All I want to do is crawl into my bed and lose consciousness. I am so tired of thinking about relationships and men men men.

But my night is not yet over.

Coming in through the backdoor, I run nearly headfirst into Luke, who’s just emerged from the basement steps carrying a milk crate full of papers. As usual, he’s only wearing a thong.

“Hi, Henry,” he says. But his voice is glum.

“Hello,” I say. “Cleaning out your room?”

“Exactly. Tossing out all this trash that I once considered my great American novel.”

Despite how tired I am, I look over at him. He’s clearly upset—or at least, he’s pretending to be upset.

“Why the loss of confidence?” I ask, against my better judgment.

“Jeff didn’t like it,” he says. “So why bother going on?”

Luke pushes out the back door. I watch him from the window. Heading into the small fenced-off area where we keep our dumpster, he upends the crate and dumps its contents inside. Then he comes back out onto the terrace and sits down hard on a bench. He lights up a cigarette.

I shouldn’t go out there. But something compels me to do so. This kid is a sneak, but somehow the sight of him, sitting in his thong smoking a cigarette, breaks my heart just a little.

“Luke,” I say.

“What?”

“I thought you were trying to quit.”

“What do you care?” He doesn’t look up at me.

“Look, the point is, why are you giving up after one critique?” I’m standing over him, resisting the urge to sit beside him. “It seems to me a critique is meant to help you get better, not quit.”

“Jeff said he thought my whole premise was flawed,” Luke says, taking another puff and exhaling the smoke over his head. “How do I fix that? I can’t. So I’m tossing it.”

“Well, that’s your choice,” I say.

He stubs the cigarette out on the ground and stands up. “But thanks for asking, Henry.” He heads back inside, the screen door slamming behind him.

Behind me I hear the low growl of the cat from next door. The damn thing is in the dumpster again, and will probably leave a whole trail of trash after it’s picked through our scraps. I head inside the enclosed area and clap my hands, prompting the cat to leap back over the fence into its own yard. But as I turn to leave, I spot something on the ground.

A binder of paper. Part of what Luke was throwing away.

I stoop down to retrieve it, intending to toss it into the dumpster. But somehow I just can’t do it. The title grabs me:
DARRYL
’
S STORY
.

I stare down at it.

A man screams in the middle of the night
, reads the first line.

Looking around to make sure Luke isn’t watching, I take it back inside. What makes me want to read this? It’s not right, I know, but I can’t help myself. Luke’s been a mystery to me ever since I met him, and I suppose Lloyd is right: I do have a fixation on him. So if his words can tell me anything about who he is, who he
really
is…

Inside my apartment, I flop down on my bed and begin to read.

A man screams in the middle of the night.

I am dreaming. Mostly I dream in black and white—mostly black. I am dreaming of my father, who’s talking to me, intense and focused, his face filling the screen of my dreamscape. He’s talking faster and faster and higher and higher until he suddenly leans his head back and screams, his face turning into Elsa Lanchester as the Bride of Frankenstein.

“Whoa,” I say, pulling back for a second before resuming.