The ring tone on my cell phone was Tchaikovsky’s B-flat concerto. Whenever it rang, my mind thundered the lyric to the full orchestral version: Tonight we love, while the moon beams down… I interrupted the melody and said, “Hello.”
A man’s voice: “Hi. Wade Bennett?”
“That’s me. Who’s calling?”
“You don’t know me. We go to the same gym…”
“Yes…?”
“You’re gay.”
“Yes? How do you know that?”
“I see the rainbow decal on your car in the lot, and I asked around.”
“Asked around?” I doubted anyone points after me and says there goes a gay man.
“Well, you play racquetball with openly—or obviously gay guys.”
With growing irritation: “Can we get to the point?”
“Yes, well. I’m getting married next week…”
“And you called to invite me to the wedding!”
“No, not exactly. I called to invite you to have sex with me.”
I took the phone from my ear and held it in front of me. Did I just hear those words come out of this device?
“Wade, are you there?”
“Still here, but slightly stunned. You want to explain?”
“Yeah, sure. Just give me a moment. This is hard to do.”
“Take your time. I’m just sitting here with the paper and my morning coffee.”
“Lexi, my fiancé—I love her very much and after we’re married I don’t ever intend to cheat on her, but…but, well, I’ve always had this desire to have sex with an older man—”
I started to interrupt, but he was clearly on a roll and rushing headlong.
“—and I wanted to do it now, this week, before I’m married. Get it out of my system so I can stop thinking about it, and I won’t have to break my vows afterwards.”
“Just who is this?”
“We’ve never met, but you know me.”
“Do you have a name?”
“I’d rather not give my name unless you agree to my request.”
“I can’t buy a pig in a poke.”
“It’s not that at all. I’ve seen you looking at me while I work out. I know you like me. What you don’t know is that I like you.”
Well, I was damned curious, and flattered as well. I had an idea who it might be, but there were several good-looking young men I admired at the gym.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
That didn’t help. I gathered my wits together. Despite my curiosity, I took the high road and said, “I know how hard it must have been for you to make this call, but I don’t think it’s a very smart thing you’re wanting to do.”
“Why not?”
“Because you waited too long. If you like it, you won’t have your mind on getting married. There’ll be no time to evaluate your feelings.”
“Maybe I won’t like it.”
“Maybe. But if you were moved to make this call, you’ve been thinking about it for a long time. None of it’s new to you except the actual contact. You’ve already been through it a hundred times in your fantasies.”
That gave him pause. “You’re right. You’ve been fucking me for two years, since I first saw you.”
I had to look at the phone again in disbelief. “There are other drawbacks. Sex is something that improves with experience. A first encounter won’t really give you what you want—you’ll want more, later. You’d be better off sticking to the script. Then, maybe in fifteen years, when the urge rears its head again, you can do what other married men do, and take a lover.”
“I can’t wait; I have to know now. It’s something I’ve got to do before I have to add the label ‘unfaithful’ to it. Besides, my friends are planning a bachelor party for me, and you know the purpose of a bachelor party. You hire a stripper and maybe a few call girls, and you get drunk out of your mind and screw someone other than your intended for the last time—your final opportunity to swing. I look at this as just a different flavor bachelor party. Please, will you help me?”
That put things in a more acceptable perspective. I could see the connection. The idea of a bachelor party had always struck me as stupidly counterproductive, and I, perhaps wrongly, assumed that nowadays the tradition had given way to a lot of drinking with a minimum of carousing. But if you were going to do it, sex with a guy didn’t sound any worse than sex with a strange girl.
“OK. I’ll give it a try, but let me say up front that I’m agreeing mostly because I’m curious to see who you are. What day, and when?”
“Can we strike while the iron is hot? Can it be today? I have a tuxedo fitting at one. I could be there right after that.”
The doorbell chimed at two-fifteen and, when I opened it, a young man I recognized from the gym was standing there, sheepishly looking up at me. It was Andy, the guy who always wore the oversized, red, salt-stained tank top that had the armholes cut so low you could see his pecs from the side; the cock tease I’d complained to my writer friend about, who based a story named The Roadrunner on him and published it in a collection called Out of the Box. In addition to driving me bonkers, I had twice seen Andy bring a girl to the gym. She had been inexperienced with gym equipment so, instead of lifting free weights, he stayed with her in the machine room where I work out. He was clearly smitten with her, thus affording me plenty of opportunity to observe him at my leisure. But I had no idea they were getting married.
He stuck out his hand. I shook it, and drew him inside. “I’m Wade.”
“Andy. Thanks for agreeing to see me.”