Monkey Suits (38 page)

Ed allowed himself this moment of soft joy, this brief indiscretion. He’d never once misbehaved at a party, and this night he somehow felt completely justified. Swaying lightly with the young man whose last name he had yet to learn, he looked into the eyes and soul that seemed only slightly jaded and still full of possibilities.

No one noticed the two hugging closely. They were nearly invisible in the moonlight, except to the most discerning eye not blurred by drink, and unaccustomed to the sight of men dancing hand in hand.

40
Black bomber jackets rustling as their elbows brushed
, Lee walked with Cal, holding hands along Astor Place, trying to match his loping strides. He didn’t do handholding walk very well, having never practiced with a man.

Despite the warm night, they wore their jackets. Traces of sweat soaked through their Gran Fury T-shirts, but Lee felt immensely comfortable in his clothes, his hair freshly shorn, and his cautious sprout of a goatee still smelling lightly of a certain region of Cal’s body.

With their lives so connected, it seemed inevitable that Lee would ask Cal to move in with him. Ed’s invitation had been politely declined. The money they saved gave them more time to do what mattered, but didn’t pay in dollars.

The undefined relationship they agreed upon allowed the occasional sexual adventure, so long as it was described afterward to the other in graphic detail. Dating other guys was out, if not superfluous. When asked out by a cute guy who said he liked going to museums, Lee couldn’t help but laugh out loud, “You mean, like going in through the front door and paying?”

Their status as a cute non-monogamous couple led to more than enough flirtations among his new activist pals, and expanded their sexual horizons to deeper friendships, and new positions. Nightclubs, jail cells, and even a flatbed truck in the enclosed loading dock of the immense Port Authority Building, where the new ACT UP office had moved, proved amusing locales for amorously testing the latest variations of safe sex.

Cal had just made ten copies of his Trump Tower demo video to give out to DIVA TV, the archives and a few out of towners who were going to show them at gay and lesbian film festivals in Philadelphia and Los Angeles. That week, they had two affinity group meetings, a poster party using Cal’s graphics to promote a club fundraiser, and a bus trip to the CDC in Atlanta to plan.

Late for another Monday meeting, which had grown so large they’d been moved from the Community Center to Cooper Union, the two hurried with eager excitement through Astor Place.

They didn’t have time for bullshit.

At first, they almost didn’t hear the muttered, “Faggots,” from the kid who shoved by them.

“What did you say?”

“Cal,” Lee pulled him back. “We don’t need to–”

“Yes. We do.” Cal blared out, “What did you say?”

The kid wheeled around, confused.

Cal’s jaw clenched as he stood beside Lee, arms down, hands curling into fists.

Lee instinctively pulled his glasses off, shoving them in the pocket of his bomber jacket. He felt briefly defenseless, then remembered that he was wearing steel-toed Doc Martin boots, and that he and Cal had taken up kickboxing.

The kid backed away. “Hey, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want any trouble.”

Cal smirked, “Then keep your mouth shut.”

Unmoving, they stood their ground. As the guy skulked off, they broke into giggles.

“That was ... interesting.”

Cal patted Lee’s back. “Refreshing. Definitely refreshing. Hey, we’re late.”

“Oh, please. There’ll be an hour of announcements before we get anything done.”

“Freedom is an endless meeting.”

They trotted around Cooper Union and down the stairs to join their new tribe.

Jim Provenzano is the author of the novels
PINS, Monkey Suits
and
Cyclizen
, the stage adaptation of
PINS
, as well as numerous published short stories and hundreds of freelance articles. The curator of
Sporting Life
, the world’s first gay athletics exhibit, he also wrote the syndicated Sports Complex column for ten years. An editor with the
Bay Area Reporter
, he lives in San Francisco.
www.myrmidude.org