Between Boyfriends (2 page)

“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.

A
n 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 wanted to have sex.

Like so many sexual encounters south of 14th Street it began with a promise and ended with a lie. “Great cock!” somehow always ends up becoming “I’ll call you.” Here’s what happened. Fuck Counter started fucking me and I was mentally airlifted to that place you think is only attainable for dewy Bel Ami models and their siblings and then I started to hear mumbling. I assumed Fuck Counter was being airlifted to the same place I was about to enter and he’d chosen to speak in tongues to the Bel Ami children. Then I realized he wasn’t mumbling words, but consecutive numbers, and by the time he got to twenty-five I realized he was counting the number of times he had entered my ass. I felt like a Tootsie Roll Pop and he was the Owl trying to figure out how many thrusts it would take to get to my center. I tried to turn off my ears, but the Owl’s counting only grew louder and my erection softer.

“Are you actually counting cock thrusts?” I finally asked.

“Forty-seven, remember that number,” Fuck Counter ordered before pausing, but not exiting. “I tend to ejaculate prematurely. So my therapist suggested I count thrusts to control my sperm and teach myself not to come until I reach a certain number.”

I digested this information like a sexual trouper who has seen much and done some.

“And are we approaching that magic number?” I queried.

“Well, my personal best is one-fifty-three, but your ass is pretty tight, so I don’t know if I can make it that long,” said Fuck Counter with a dopey grin.

In spite of my disappointment that he’d broken one of my cardinal rules and used the word
sperm
during sex, I’m a sucker for a challenge as well as a dopey grin. I felt my inner Mary Lou Retton grow along with my dick, and I tried to loosen up my inner ass. However, as my proctologist once told me, “Steven, you have the sphincter of a straight man.” I had to face facts: my asshole is tight. If I couldn’t help Fuck Counter by loosening up my ass, I’d have to help him another way.

“You want to count thrusts, boy?” I bellowed.

Fuck Counter was startled at first, but quickly realized I was totally on his side and willing to act as his sex coach.

“Sir! Yes sir!”

“Well, counting costs. And right here’s where you start paying. In sweat!”

I kept shouting like Debbie Allen instructing dancers whose only chance at fame would be as chorus members of the bus and truck tour of
Fiddler on the Roof
starring Eddie Mekka and it seemed to do the trick. Fuck Counter was energized. His hands gripped my ankles like two vises, his face became a mask of focused concentration, and his dick swelled.

“Fifty-five!” he shouted.

With each thrust his shouting got louder, so by the time he reached 178 I could swear I heard the parade watchers outside counting along with him. Soon he gasped, “Two hundred and ten,” orgasmed, and collapsed on top of me in a pile of muscle and sweat. His body felt wonderful and I rode an emotional roller coaster lying underneath him as I realized Fuck Counter could be a fun boyfriend if he wasn’t so fucked up. Once I resigned myself to the fact that I couldn’t explore this relationship emotionally, but only numerically, I was able to shoot my load and rush back to catch the end of the parade leaving Fuck Counter to clean up.

Heading to the Club M dressing room with my size-32 distressed jeans I walked by Fuck Counter and gave him a smile that said, “Hey, how are you doing?” “You look great,” and “Glad to see you’re alive and well, but I have no desire to get naked with you again.” Comprehending my silent comments, Fuck Counter just leaned into me and whispered, “I’m up to three-twenty-five.”

As I entered the dressing room, I carried not only my merchandise, but also an unexpected erection. Shopping satisfies on so many levels.

By the time I got to J. Crew, I had five bags and felt like Joan Collins sauntering down Rodeo Drive, if Joan Collins carried her own bags, which everyone knows is an activity relegated to a paid employee, i.e., her husband. I clutched one side of the J. Crew door as another good-looking Sunday-strolling gay retail whore clutched the other. Much to my joy I realized it was my best friend, Flynn McCormack.

“Ahhh!” Flynn shrieked.

“Ahhh!” I shrieked back.

“Bad night?” Flynn asked, eyeing my bags.

“Yes,” I confessed. “But now I’m in love.”

“Ooh, baby got bounce. I want to hear all about it, but first Mama needs some argyle.”

Steven Ferrante and Flynn McCormack would make the perfect homo-couple if only we were in love. But, alas, some things are just not meant to be. I met Flynn when we were both at Boston University and he was an out-of-the-closet junior and I was a please-don’t-unlock-the-closet-door freshman. Mutual friends set us up on a blind date not so much because they thought we’d be compatible, but because they knew Flynn would rip open my closet door and fling me out into the real world like a skilled obstetrician ripping a baby from the comfort and security of its mother’s womb. And that’s just what Flynn did. He reached into my symbolic vagina and yanked out my true self. He was the first person who taught me what it really meant to be out and proud. And even though we physically looked like a couple you’d be jealous of—Flynn’s auburn hair, freckled cheeks, pale complexion, and six-foot-two swimmer’s body perfectly complemented my dark brown locks, olive skin, high cheekbones, and five-foot-ten nicely muscled frame—there were no real romantic sparks between us. We did engage in a hot make-out session that resulted in my first facial burn, which still makes me wistful whenever I think about it, but something better than romantic sparks grew out of our first meeting, a flame of friendship that still burns to this very day. No one knows me better than Flynn and no one knows Flynn better than me, so for better or worse we’re stuck with each other, which is just the way we both like it.

“Did you measure it?” Flynn asked in reference to Ely’s penis, as we walked further south on Fifth Avenue toward Washington Square, carrying multiple bags of queergotten merchandise.

“No, but when I went to stroke it, it got lost in my fist.”

“Ah jeez, poor guy. Perhaps I should send him this book I’m reading—
You’re the Top: How to Be a Better Bottom in Twelve Easy Steps.
It’s changed my life, it could change his.”

“Thank you, but I think it’s best if Ely and I go our separate ways.”

“Sometimes that’s best,” Flynn agreed, “like me and Andy.”

“I thought he was the new love of your life?”

“He was until I realized he’s a freak,” Flynn said. “Like every other man I’ve ever had, except you of course.”

“You never had me,” I corrected.

“I know,” Flynn said. “Just testing you in case this latest setback made you embellish your memories.”

“How thoughtful,” I said, then asked tentatively, “Did he get upset when you told him?”

“No, he was fine with that,” Flynn said.

“Good.”

Flynn has been HIV-positive for the past ten years and on occasion it has gotten in the way of a budding relationship. Fortunately, healthwise, Flynn has never had a serious problem. At first we were both frightened and devastated by his diagnosis, but those feelings quickly gave way to the survival instinct—we both wanted Flynn to live. So I helped him find a wonderful doctor who found the right combination of medicine; he got to the gym more often, started eating healthier and, most important, clung to his optimistic spirit. It’s what I love most about Flynn; he truly believes life is worth living. The only caveat being that there has to be good musical theater—so now that
Cats
has finally closed Flynn should live for a good long time.

“So what elevated Andy to freakdom?” I queried.

“Last night we were about to have sex for the first time,” Flynn began. “We’re on his bed and his dick is almost all the way in and he stops. I figure he wants to take it slow, which I love, so I close my eyes and get ready for him to crank up the volume, but there’s no sound. I open my eyes and I see him smoothing out the sheets and fixing the pillows. So I said, ‘Are you gonna fuck me or make your bed?’ The freak pulls out and starts making his bed!”

“Losing out to bed linen, not very good,” I said, trying to console him.

“No, it’s not. He said, ‘I just got these sheets from ABC, let’s do it on the couch.’ To which I respond, ‘The moment’s passed, hon, like Elton John’s Broadway career.’”

“Really? What about
Billy Elliot,
I hear that’s supposed to be great.”

“That’s a West End transfer, it doesn’t count!”

“You theater queens are so harsh at times.”

“Listen, Elton’s said good-bye to the Yellow Brick Road, it’s time he said good-bye to the Great White Way too. Especially after that
Lestat
debacle. That show sucked so bad it made
Dance of the Vampires
look Tony-worthy.”

“I was talking about Andy.”

“Oh yeah, him,” Flynn continued. “I just got dressed and left. Last thing I heard him say before the elevator doors slammed shut was ‘Those sheets are seven hundred count.’ Fuck him! I am worth nine hundred count at least!”

“It’s like I always say, if you’re gonna fuck a man, be a man and buy your sheets at Target like all the other cheap Marys,” I declared. “Never mind, I didn’t really like him anyway.”

“Thank you,” Flynn said.

“He had that birthmark on his earlobe. I always thought he was wearing an onyx clip-on. And each tooth was a different shade. Didja ever notice that? One was off-white, one was ecru, a few were mother-of-pearl.”

“I said thank you,” Flynn interrupted tersely.

“Sorry, I wasn’t sure how bad I had to mock him to ease your pain.”

“I’m eased,” Flynn said, then smiled that warm smile I have grown to cherish. “Now tell me about you: my baby’s in love?”

“Well…”

So as we entered Washington Square Park I told Flynn about my fateful meeting with Frank and how I totally understood love is not born from a few glances in Starbucks, but that I had a good feeling about him. And even if that feeling turned out to be completely wrong and Frank joined Andy as the newest resident of Freakville, it couldn’t hurt to be a little happier for a few hours.

“My optimism seems to have rubbed off on you,” Flynn said with a smile.

“I’m trying.”

“I’m happy for you,” Flynn said with complete honesty. “I’d give you a hug, but Frank may be stalking you right now and I don’t want your love life to turn into a
Three’s Company
episode where Mr. Roper mistakes our friendly bonhomie for full-out man-to-man love.”

“You really think he could be stalking me?” I asked, trying desperately not to look around the park.

“Steven honey, I’ve lived in this city for twelve years, nothing shocks me.”

That night when I got home I had four messages. The first two were from Lindsay. Message number one was placed from the bathroom of some guy whose appendage, Lindsay claimed, might rival Ely’s thumb/penis. Message number two was placed by a hysterical Lindsay from the street three minutes later after he discovered the man whose thumb/penis rivaled Ely’s was none other than Ely. The last two were from my mother and compared to her messages, Lindsay’s seemed tame.

“Steven, it’s your mother. I need you to do me a favor. Call me!” my mother’s voice, a nasal mix of northern New Jersey and southern Italian, bellowed.