he would have greeted me with an Hola or Como estas or a Que tal?
I told him how my mom raised me as a single parent in Charlotte and how I always felt like I was the parent. Milly—I call her by first name—was always having trouble paying the bills and keeping debtors away, so I remember growing up eating cereal for dinner and watching a lot of TV while she worked odd jobs, from selling newspaper ads for The Charlotte News to Avon beauty products.
As soon as I turned sixteen, I got a job at the Gap folding clothes, and I worked part-time at a karaoke bar where I would get up and sing at least once a night to a standing ovation. I was never much of an academic type. I always had a hard time focusing. Teachers told my mom I had ADD, and they were right, something I’ve learned to accept and deal with. My dream was to be a singer, so I went to the local community college in Charlotte and studied music. But learning all the different music styles and studying operatic music (I was a baritenor) wasn’t my thing. I just wanted to go out on a stage and sing, and sing I did, every Sunday at church and with the school choir. At twenty, I decided my dreams couldn’t be contained in Charlotte, and I set my sights on New York City, where I’ve been searching for my big break. I haven’t found it yet, but I know it’s out there. I can sense it.
“Let me hear you sing, anything,” David said, sipping his Diet Coke. The way he looked at me made me feel so special that afternoon, like I was the only boy in Chelsea, or even in New York for that matter. His eyes were completely on me and no one else, not even the sweaty, hot muscle boys running and skating up and down the pier in their too-small shorts and too-tight tank tops.
“Okay, but remember, my voice isn’t warmed up.”
I sang him a verse of Foreigner’s I Wanna Know What Love Is—one of my favorite classic rock ballads—and I wasn’t pitchy at all. He just held my stare as I sang and, apparently, I sang on key because a small crowd gathered and began tossing coins and dollar bills into our empty pizza box. That money went to my dinner fund for the next night.
“That was great, Brian. You have the voice of an angel and the blue eyes of one, too,” David said, leaning in closer to me as he spoke.
So that was our first date, and from then on, we were inseparable. Three months later, I moved into his Chelsea two-bedroom, and my life continued to improve. We took trips to Israel to meet his family and weekend getaways to a condo in Newport, Rhode Island that Daniel ended up buying on impulse. My creativity and eye for design helped Daniel decorate our homes, and my spirituality helped soothe and center him when he was stressed out from work. Daniel’s business savvy and direct in-your-face approach to life taught me how to deal with people and how to get what I wanted. We were a good match. We understood each other. Our personalities balanced one another’s. We were two Scorpios in harmony. But over the years, something began to fade and, like a disappearing sunset, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened. The sex grew infrequent. Daniel was working more and seemed less interested in being with me. I had more to do with overseeing the renovations and home projects in our upscale two-bedroom condo in Chelsea, our little condo in Newport, and then a new parcel of land on the Venetian Causeway, where we were building our waterfront villa.
I yearned for sexual intimacy and Daniel wasn’t interested in having that with me. As I got older I started shedding my boyish look and began to look more like a man. I grew a goatee and gained a little weight around my waist. (It was all those grand dinners at restaurants in Chelsea and in Newport.) I could sense that Daniel wanted a younger-looking boy toy to play with. I didn’t seem to turn him on anymore, like when we first met. I was old at twenty-five. Although I was attracted to Daniel, I eventually lost my sexual desire for him, too. (He wasn’t the hot Latino papi I first imagined he would be.) We fell into a pattern more befitting roommates, best friends, and business partners. We just weren’t sexual partners anymore.
And that brings to me to this gorgeous Latin man sleeping at my side. Eros’s simple touch arouses a deeply hidden sexual desire in me that drives me wild. If only I felt this way toward Daniel again, but I don’t and neither does he. Three years ago, after months and months of a sexless relationship, Daniel and I agreed to extend the boundaries of our relationship to allow us to have sex with other men. Our rule: we can hook up with other guys but never more than once because that could poison our life-partnership. It was hard for me at first, knowing that Daniel was going out there and doing all the things we used to do, but with other boyish guys. But then I realized I could hook up with those Latin guys that have always turned me on, ever since watching Eric Estrada on CHiPs or Lorenzo Lamas on Falcon Crest. I can’t imagine my life without Daniel. I do love him, and I know he loves me. He even likes my flaky mom, who can be a handful during the holidays, trying to delegate what we’re going to eat and where we’re going to sit. The sexual part of our relationship is dead, and I don’t think anything, not even sweet nostalgia, will revive it.
People don’t understand my situation with Daniel, especially Ted and Ray. They are great guys, and I’m glad I’ve become friends with them in my adopted city. I have a hard time making friends because once they see my Rolex, my Land Rover, and one of our houses, they see the wealth and the opportunities that the money can bring them. I’ve recognized the look over the years from users, so-called friends who have a business agenda. Ted and Ray aren’t like that. They seem grounded and interested in me only as a friend, not as a liaison to Daniel and his investors. Neither has ever made a move on me either and for that, I knew they could be good friends of mine in Miami when I visit. I don’t have many close friends. Most of my friends are Daniel’s business associates, and I don’t relate to them.
In case you’re wondering, I met Ray first, online for a possible hookup one night on manhunt.net. From his posted photo, I thought he was cute, and when he said he was Cuban, my eyebrows shot up with excitement. But when we met in person, the sexual vibe wasn’t there. (That’s the thing about online connections. You can’t make an accurate assessment until you come face to face and read the person’s energy.) I immediately sensed he could be a potential new friend in Miami, and we left it at that and started hanging out. But never at the movies. I can’t sit through a two-hour movie. I like listening to him talk about his twin brother and his wacky but loving Cuban family. I wish my upbringing was more like that, instead of me parenting my mom. I had to be the man of the house at a young age because my dad wasn’t around. He wasn’t part of the Anderson household, but I’ve dealt with that. My father, if you can call him that, decided that going out and boozing was more important than helping my mom raise me. He abandoned us before I was born. At twenty-three, he wasn’t ready to be a father. I yearned to have that father figure when I was younger. I watched fathers pick up my classmates after school. I envied my friends when their dads sat in the audience and watched us in school plays. I eventually accepted the hard truth: I didn’t have a father. I survived without one. As time went on, I didn’t need him in my life. It doesn’t make a difference to me whether he’s dead or alive. Milly did her best, and Daniel has been my family and my rock. When my father resurfaced three years ago and wanted to be part of my life, I said no. But at Daniel’s urging, I agreed to meet him for lunch, and that has become our yearly get-together. I do it out of obligation. It turns out my father has liver problems from his years of alcohol abuse, and he wanted to make amends before it was too late. I wish he had that epiphany when I was a boy, when I needed support in dealing with another drinking parent. The reason I meet with him once a year is that I want to know in the future that I made an effort in getting to know my father. I want to prove to myself that I am a better person that he ever was or ever will be and that I am nothing like him.
“Hey…you okay Brian?” I hear Eros waking up.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there guapo. Just looking out at the stars over Miami. I’m over here on the balcony.”
I look at the bed, with its flowing white sheets. Eros lays there like a tanned Puerto Rican statue coming to life. He sits up and winks at me.
“Come over here papito. I want to hold you,” he says, gesturing his hand toward me. The bay breeze blows the bedroom curtains softly like the sails from a boat that has just found a new wind. The clouds swallow the sentinel moon over Miami. The bay’s water laps against our twenty-foot boat and our two jet skis, rocking them rock back and forth, a lot like