and toward a more manageable, non-blushable subject.
“Before you lapse into endless chanting of ‘Why me?’ let’s use this time productively and figure out what we’re going to do for Gus’s birthday. He’s going to be forty on the twelfth.”
Lindsay was instantaneously pulled out of his own misery by this news that he considered to be even more catastrophic.
“God, that’s sad. Officially forty-something and single and gay and living alone in the big, wormy apple that is the city. Why would anyone want to celebrate that?”
“Gus will be forty, not forty-something. He can’t be forty-something until next year, when something comes after the forty,” I explained. “And it’s not sad. He’s got the best apartment of us all in the Village, he made a mint on Wall Street before it went bust, and he’s got an accent.”
Lindsay pursed his lips, then formed a smile with only the right side of his mouth.
“But every night Gus goes to bed alone.”
“We all go to bed alone,” I retorted.
“But we’re years from being forty-something,” Lindsay cried. “We still have hope!”
He had me. I hate when Lindsay barks a truism, but sometimes amid all his rantings, non sequiturs, and sentences that start with the word I, there exists a kernel of truth. And turning forty in a city, or at least a gay section of a city that worships youth, is an unfortunate happening. But as with all happenings in the gay section of any city, it was a happening that would be celebrated. So even though all Gus’s friends were glad that he was the one turning forty and not them, all Gus’s friends would gather together and throw him a celebration worthy of a happier happening. It made no difference that during the celebration all of us would be praying that when we turned forty we looked as good as, were as successful as, and had the financial portfolio of Gus Aldwych. To his face we would simply call him old.
“Whatever you do, I’m in,” Lindsay said, “but remember I have that Fox retrospective on the third and I need you all there for support. This could be very lucrative for me.”
“I thought it was just for Olympic medalists.”
“They’ve expanded their coverage, okay? They’ve opened themselves up wider than a certain male figure skater did for the entire French bobsledding team!”
While Lindsay saw red, I noticed that the Starbucks Sunday Regular was still eyeing me from behind the New York Times Arts section. Only in New York is it possible to upgrade from toddler-penis to literate lover in less time than it takes for Lindsay to expose the sexual secrets of every male figure skater who ever lived. God bless gay New York. And God bless the chutzpah on the Regular, for before I could look away this time, he got up and walked directly toward me.
“I’m done with the paper if you want to check it out,” the Regular said.
“I’d love to check you…I mean it…out,” I stumbled, causing the Regular to smile crookedly.
“Page three has a great article,” the Regular said, maintaining eye contact with me. “It was nice meeting you.”
As he started to walk away he looked directly at Lindsay and finished his sentence, “Both.” He gave me one more knowing glance and, I think, yes I believe, he actually winked at me. I was too startled to wink back, which is a good thing, because I can’t wink, so I probably would have looked like I was squinting or suffered from an uncontrollable Tourette’s-like twitch. Neither would have been construed as flirtatious. So I just sat there with my mouth open, which he could have perceived as a response to his Sunday afternoon brazenness or an invitation from me to be brazen on a Sunday afternoon. Effective either way.
“Can you believe that guy?” Lindsay said, guzzling the last drop of soy ’n’ vanilla. “Caffeine makes people rude.”
I wasn’t listening to a word Lindsay said because I was staring at something much more interesting on page three of the New York Times Arts section. In between an article begging people to write a new musical for Patti LuPone and another article begging people to stop writing musicals for American Idol finalists was the Regular’s phone number. A real number followed by a real question—Call me? The Regular had actually managed to be forward and shy at the same time. And to top it off, all of this information was signed. The Regular had a name and it was Frank. A perfectly regular name for a perfectly regular guy.
I ripped Frank’s number and query from the paper, making sure to also rip out the entire Patti LuPone article, for I too believed it was time for the once-and-future diva to return to the boards in a brand-new musical and not a lame revisical, and told Lindsay I had to run. We kiss-kissed and he said he would hang around and boy-watch for a bit before heading to the gym. Luckily I have a degree in Lindsay-speak and understood that meant he hadn’t gotten laid the night before and was still horny.
As I was leaving Starbucks, who walked in but Ely. We looked at each other and without breaking our strides another understanding took place. He knew that I was not up for a sunlit encounter and I knew that he knew that he had a small penis. At times of necessity, gay men can understand each other. As I walked down the street toward my future I glanced back and looked through the window to see Ely and Lindsay exchange glances. How I would have loved to hear Lindsay’s reaction when he came face-to-face with Ely’s steroid-free mini-pee, but luckily I had better things to do.
Chapter Two
An hour later I was still aglow with the possibilities of romance. It was therefore appropriate that I found myself at my second favorite location in all of New York City—the first, of course, being any Starbucks coffee bar. I stood on the southwest corner of 20th Street and Fifth Avenue, right in front of Club Monaco or more precisely the entrance to what I call Gay Men’s Shopping Mecca—or GMSM, which should not be confused with Gay Men’s Sado-Masochists, unless you stand at the entrance with a maxed-out credit card.
GMSM is so named because if you walk south on either side of the street you will stumble across Gap, Banana Republic, J. Crew, Zara, Kenneth Cole, Pier 1 and, at the lip of the retail river, Paul Smith. To be honest I have never bought anything at Paul Smith, but I did briefly date an androgynous Pan-Asian Paul Smith salesclerk, whom I christened Ho-Sale, just to get a few free Paul Smith multicolored vertically striped shopping bags that I absolutely adore.
So there I stood in front of Ralph Lauren’s Canadian bastard child with the number of my future life partner tucked into my pocket next to a credit card that demanded to be exploited. I always spend money whenever I feel my life is about to change in a positive way. I did it when I first got promoted to real producer at ITNC and not a yogurt smoothie–fetching, phone message–taking associate producer; I did it when my first, and only, case of gonorrhea cleared up; and now on the threshold of the most significant romance since Miss Barbra Joan Streisand married some former TV doctor, I would do it again. And although this was a spiritual celebration it was also a practical one—I needed a new wardrobe for my new life with Frank.
As is typical on a retail shopping excursion in the GMSM, you’re bound to run into people you know or see at the bars or have had sex with once or twice before. While I was deciding if I should try on a pair of distressed jeans, size 32, thank you very much, Frank’s face was momentarily pushed out of my mind as I noticed a familiar guy wearing the Chelsea Uniform: baseball cap pulled down low, light blue Abercrombie & Fitch zip-front sweatshirt, navy blue Nike track pants with a white stripe down the side. This particular guy was someone I affectionately called Fuck Counter. He earned his nickname not because his ass could double as a folding tray, but because he literally counts the number of times his dick enters you while fucking.
The first time Fuck Counter and I met was during Gay Pride in front of the Duplex Cabaret. Shaved down and horned up, we drank Bud Light out of plastic rainbow cups and sang Carol Channing’s more memorable tunes with a bunch of other drunken partygoers, mocked the physically impossible alien-spawn Splash employees who do nothing but tend bar and work out, then went to his apartment and tried our hand at conversation, but realized we both just