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NICK
On the way home later that night, I run into my friend Richard outside of Crunch Fitness on Twenty-Third Street in Chelsea. We hooked up a few days after I first arrived in New York, but it was a disaster from the first kiss in the back of a cab to the dismal finale a couple of hours later on his kitchen floor. I always attributed my lukewarm performance to my nerves and his fondness for singing opera arias while having sex. Although we never staged a follow-up tryst, Richard and I kept in touch nonetheless. He settled down a few months later with a wealthy older couple, serving as the regenerative catalyst for their longtime union.
“Well, if it isn’t Richie Rich,” I say, sneaking up behind him and covering his eyes. “Guess who?”
He does a quick pivot, shrugs off my hands and then acts like he’s going to deliver a roundhouse punch.
“Fucker!” he shouts. “You gotta be careful, man. That’s a good way to get yourself killed these days.”
“Ah, you’re too much of a kitty cat,” I tease. “You may talk tough and look like a fucking brick house, but I know the real you is all squishy and soft and tender on the inside.”
He leans closer and kisses my cheek. “Maybe yes,” he says. “And maybe no. You never got your cock up my ass, so you have no idea what it’s like beneath my ruggedly handsome exterior.”
“Still so very humble though,” I say. “Good to see that some things never change.”
He laughs. “To quote the late, great Nina Simone, ‘Everything must change. Nothing remains the same.’”
“Well, aren’t you a deep thinker,” I say. “What’s going on?”
“On my way home,” Richard answers. “My two husbands are expecting me for dinner.”
I check the time on my phone. “Isn’t it kind of late for you guys?” I ask. “Isn’t Olive Garden’s early bird service usually finished by now?”
“Very funny, asshole. Tate and Alec both had doctor appointments this afternoon, so our schedule is running a little later than usual.”
“How are they?” I ask. “Did Alec finish chemo okay?”
I regret the question when I see the light leave Richard’s pale green eyes.
“Alec is doing great,” he says. “But we don’t need to talk about that shit. What’s up with you?”
I look down at the sidewalk. “Not much.”
I lift my gaze when he clears his throat. Something crosses his face, an expression of hope and frustration and sorrow.
“I’m working on a new painting that’s going really well,” I tell him. “You three will have to come to the gallery opening when it happens.”
“Still working ten million jobs?” He shifts his backpack from one shoulder to the other. “Tate would still love to have you work in the office if you want to get into a more stable groove.”
Tate runs his family’s moving company near their house about an hour north of the city. While a regular salary and benefits would be amazing, the reverse commute and long hours would make it nearly impossible to paint during my most creative time of the day or meet with galleries to discuss my portfolio.
“I’m working three part-time gigs,” I say. “And I really appreciate the offer, but I need to keep focused on my art.”
“And how’s Cara?” he asks. “Are you guys still sharing that place on the Lower East Side?”
“Somehow she thought it made better sense for her boyfriend to live there once they got married,” I report with an exaggerated frown. “At the moment, I’m house-sitting for those two guys from back home that I introduced you to at Industry a couple of months ago.”
His eyes light up. “Oh, the trust fund kid and his chef boyfriend?”
“That’s them,” I say. “They’re on an extended jaunt through Europe for the next few months.”
“How awful for them,” he teases. “Where’s their place?”
“One Fifth,” I say. “Between Waverly and Eighth Street.”
Richard cocks an eyebrow. “Ritzy,” he says. “And what about your love life? I got a text from Oliver. He said that you’re head over heels about somebody named Alan.”
“Adam,” I say. “And it’s not exactly head over heels. I just met him last week.”
Richard’s head bobs. “I can read between the lines,” he tells me. “I’ve seen that shy, timid expression on your face at least three or four times before. You really like this guy, don’t you?”
“I actually do,” I say. “But I didn’t get his number, so I was—”
“How the fuck did that happen?” Richard blurts. “That’s the first rule of hunting cock, sweetie.”
“Maybe for you,” I say. “But I was wondering if you know anyone by that name that works as an architect and lives in the West Village?”
Richard laughs. “Tell me more.”
“Like what?”
“Age, dick size, the street he lives on.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have an address,” I explain. “And I’d guess he’s around forty or so. Full sleeve tattoos, pretty muscular, square jaw, dimple in his chin.”
Richard’s hands go to his heart and he spins around. “Ooh, la, la,” he says. “He sounds dreamy. How was the sex?”
Oh, fuck. Why is that one of the first questions that people ask when I tell them that I’ve met someone new?
“Well?” Richard tweaks the end of my nose. “Tell me.”
“It was epic,” I reply.
When I don’t unfurl a lengthy description, Richard squawks dismissively. “That’s it? You only have one word to describe fucking your new hot daddy?”
“Oh, no,” I say. “There are thousands of words that describe the other night. I’m just being a bit more discerning these days.”
“You’re a mess, Nick!” He throws back his head and laughs. “Whenever some queen says she’s being discerning, it means the sex was dreadful, the guy was limp as a noodle or all of the above.”
“Maybe it also means they’re being more circumspect about matters of the heart.”
He howls again. “Matters of the cock is probably more like it! Are you forgetting that I’ve known you since you rolled into town? I held your hand and dried your tears after Scotty ended things with a text. I flew to San Francisco to put you back together after Chad dropped you like a hot potato in the middle of your fucking vacation. And I was on the phone with you for days when Taylor pulled that shit a few months ago.”
“Okay, okay,” I say when he finishes. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right about all of that. But the thing is…” I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “Here’s the thing, okay? I met the most amazing man last Friday night. He’s fucking gorgeous. The sex was epic. And I’d love to see him again. But now I’m afraid that’ll never happen.”
“Why the fuck not?” Richard asks.
“Because I wasn’t kidding about not having his number,” I say.
“It’s kind of like Cinderella,” Richard replies. “Except there’s no fairy godmother, no clock striking midnight and no lost slipper.”
I actually smile because his face is so animated while he’s running down the checklist of differences between the famous fairy tale and my tattered life.
“That’s right,” I tell him. “And I’m not a prince.”
“True that,” Richard says in the faux Southern accent he trots out whenever he’s trying to cheer up a friend. “You’re a princess. And I highly doubt the hunky daddy works as a scullery maid for his cruel stepmother.”
“No doubt,” I say glumly.
“Well, I hope you find him again,” Richard says as his phone rings. “And I sure hope that it’s soon.”
He pulls out the cell, glances at the screen and announces that his two husbands are wondering when he’ll be home.
“I better get going,” he says, coming in to give me a hug. “Good to see you, Nick. Don’t be a stranger. Maybe you can come up to the country one weekend soon.”
“That would be perfect,” I say. “Getting away from the city would be a nice change of pace.”
“And maybe you’ll have someone to bring with you,” he says, raising his arm to hail a cab. “Whether it’s this Adam fellow or someone else, you’d both be very welcome at Chez Metamucil.”
“Is that really what you guys named the new estate?” I ask.
Richard issues a wicked chuckle. “Not officially,” he says. “But it’s what we three call it. I mean, at this point, after the nightmare that we’ve been through with Alec’s cancer, we need to laugh as much as possible.”
“Amen to that!” I say as a taxi lurches to a stop. “Give my best to your boys.”