by Doug Sanford
But I also went because I was still hoping to meet him at some point, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to be in shape. I had an okay body, but I hadn’t done any regular workouts since I was in college—other than sex. When I realized I wasn’t going to find him in the open workout room, I joined an adult fitness class which turned out to be more rigorous than I’d planned on, but which had some really impressive payoffs in a fairly short time.
I brought up the possibility of our meeting in person a few times when we first talked, but he was skittish, avoiding it or making a joke and changing the subject. I was worried about pushing him away by insisting, and so I stopped mentioning it.
I figured he was ashamed of his looks, and I thought a lot about whether what he looked like would matter if we ever did meet. I know I said I wouldn’t care if he was a troll, but was that true? Could I love someone seriously unattractive or disfigured by an accident he hadn’t told me about?
But why the hell was I thinking about love? He was fucking straight, for God’s sake. It was clear I was obsessing over him way too much.
Two months of talking on the phone seems insane, but I was happy. I totally looked forward to our calls. He had a very sexy voice, but it wasn’t intentionally put-on sexy. It was a masculine, Midwestern voice with not the slightest hint of femininity that young guys, even young straight guys, sometimes have. It was very natural, like his personality.
It’s difficult to describe, but every so often his voice would unintentionally crack or squeak on a single letter or syllable in a word. It wasn’t predictable and always surprised and delighted me when it happened—almost as though his voice were still changing.
I’d have recognized that voice anywhere.
And though I knew it was silly, I still visited the campus area occasionally, walking around now, going into stores he’d mentioned, thinking that maybe I’d hear him talking somewhere. I’m not kidding: I was a mess.
As sexy as I thought his voice was, I knew first-hand how deceptive that could be. I talked to most of my clients on the phone before we ever met in person, and I’d think I’d know what they were going to look like. Not once did I ever get it right: male or female.
One guy I won’t forget. We spoke on the phone for probably two weeks about a house he and his wife wanted to see. But our schedules didn’t mesh, and we had a problem getting together. He too had a sexy voice, young, friendly, and masculine, and though I knew he was married and straight, I eagerly looked forward to meeting this hunk.
When we finally did meet, it turned out he was about forty years old, looked like a football player gone to seed from too much beer, and was nearly bald. Really nice guy and every bit as friendly in person as he was on the phone. But he sure wasn’t what I’d expected from the way he sounded. So I knew there was no way Big Bad Bart’s voice was going to give me any clue at all about what he looked like.
As it turned out not knowing what Bart looked like was the best thing that could have happened.
Chapter 4
I didn’t want to push the idea of meeting in person, but, after two months, I was getting frustrated that we couldn’t do things together. We could talk about what we’d done or would do or wanted to do individually, but we couldn’t eat together or go to a movie or just hang out.
It was his English lit class that brought things to a head.
I knew he was going to be reading The Importance of Being Earnest which is hands-down one of my favorite plays. I was excited about that and couldn’t wait to be able to talk to him about it.
Then I saw in the paper that the Tucson Playhouse had a production of Earnest coming up the beginning of November. I had to find a way to see that with him.
It was already late October, and I decided to use the play to broach the subject again. But I had to be careful.
“Hey, kid, you know what date it is?”
“Sure, old man, the twenty-fifth.”
The kid/old man thing from our second conversation had stuck for some reason. It was pretty much our standard form of address to each other by then. I loved it. I thought of it as giving our talks a kind of intimacy we couldn’t have any other way.
“You know what’s coming up on the twenty-seventh?”
“Remembering what a thing you made about it last month, how could I forget? Our anniversary, as you call it,” he said with a comic sneer in his voice.
He was right. It was the anniversary of our first phone call.
“Don’t knock it, kid. Anyhow, you know how you told me you’re going to be reading The Importance of Being Earnest?”
“Yeah, but that won’t be for a while yet. What’s that got to do with the twenty-seventh?”
“Well, Tucson Playhouse is doing a production of Earnest in a couple of weeks.”
Short silence.
“An-nd?” He drew the word out almost into two syllables. It was clear he could see what was coming.
“Wouldn’t it be great if we went to see it together?”
Silence.
I had to get it out and I didn’t want him to be able to interrupt and object, so really fast as though it were all one sentence, I said: “But in order to see it together we’d have to finally meet right and we wouldn’t want to meet that night for the very first time would we so it seemed to me that the twenty-seventh would be a great day to finally meet. What do you think?”
More silence.
“C’mon, Bart. We’ve got to at least talk about it. I’ve been really good about not bringing it up lately. And remember that rule number one is still in effect, so you don’t have to worry about me jumping you—or should I say, my jumping you?”
He laughed—a bit nervously, but still, a good sign.
“You’re right, Marc. We’ve got to talk about it.”
The switch from kid/old man to Bart/Marc meant we were on more serious ground. That was good. He was willing to discuss it.
“Every time I’ve brought it up, you’ve shied away from it. Why?”
“I guess I didn’t want to spoil anything.”
“Why should it spoil anything?”
“What if I don’t like the way you look or you don’t like the way I look?”
“Bart, you’re straight, and we’re just friends. Why should our looks make any difference?”
Of course, when we did finally meet, I found that looks, his looks, were the crux of the problem in a totally unexpected way.
A pause. “You’re right. I guess we’ve got to meet face to face. No matter what happens.”
“That’s a bit mysterious. Why should anything happen?”
“You’ll see. Okay. October twenty-seventh. Where?”
“You sound like someone making an appointment to have a tooth pulled. The twenty-seventh is Tuesday, and you’re usually at school late. How about at the library, by the outside snack area near the vending machines?”
“What time?”
He clearly wasn’t enthusiastic.
“Five-thirty? Assuming neither one of us is a basilisk and strikes the other dead with a single glance, we could go eat dinner.”
He protested with a smile in his voice, “Stop that.”
“Well, at least I got you to laugh.”
“You usually can, old man. Okay, five-thirty.”
So maybe we were back to normal?
Chapter 5
We talked a bit longer that night, but he had reading to do, and I was glad to get off the phone. Even though it was my idea, I was getting nervous.
I was busy all day Monday, up into the evening, meeting clients, showing properties, finishing up paperwork, and avoiding Bart. I called him at some point and told him I’d get back to him later that night.
I waited as long as I dared because I really didn’t want to talk too much, but we had to make final arrangements.
“Hey. How you doing, kid?”
“Okay. You?”
“Tired. It was a helluva day.”
Pause.
“So, tomorro
w’s the day,” I continued. “You’re not going to bail?”
“No, you’re right. We’ve got to get it over with.”
“Boy, that sounds optimistic. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be bitchy. I’ve told you what I look like: six five, dark hair. I’ll be wearing a blue button-down, jeans, and loafers.”
“Bass Weejuns, of course. Probably with no socks. Jesus, that’s your cruising outfit. I thought you said I was safe.”
I laughed. “You don’t forget anything, do you? It’s a good thing we set up rule number two, ‘cause otherwise, I’m sure you’d catch me out on something. But I won’t be cruising you. You’re still safe.”
“Yeah, I know. Rule number one,” he said dryly. “But at least don’t show up commando. I’m sure I’ll recognize you. Nobody else on campus will be wearing pressed blue jeans with a crease, old man—and I really do mean old.”
He was right, as he usually was. That was what I’d referred to in an earlier conversation as my cruising outfit. It was what I used to wear all the time to the bars: blue button-down shirt, jeans with a crease, and Bass Weejuns with no sox. I’ve got three blue button-downs—four counting the ragged one I wear around the house; five pairs of jeans, all pressed; and a couple of pairs of Bass Weejun penny loafers, one black and one brown—I really like the way they look when I wear them without socks. And I usually didn’t wear underwear when I cruised. How he retained all that stuff I don’t know, but he’s sharp, and I was kind of complimented that he was interested enough to have remembered.
“What about you?”
“I’m not as anal as you. I don’t know what I’ll wear. But I’m sure I’ll recognize you. You’ll probably be the oldest one there.”
He was a bit more flip than usual, but he always enjoyed teasing me. And he was a whole lot less anal than I am and had a much better sense of humor.
“You as nervous about this as I am?” I asked.
“Yeah. Maybe more.”
“Tomorrow. Five-thirty.”
“Yeah.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
Chapter 6
The snack area was empty when I first walked in and looked around.
Then, from behind me, “Marc?” It was his unmistakable voice with that slight crack in it.
I turned to look at him for the first time and nearly lost it. I recovered in a second or two, much faster than describing this is going to take.
Big Bad Bart was fucking gorgeous. There’s no other word. Seriously—drop dead, breath sucking, eye catching, movie star gorgeous. A head of thick, light brown curly hair with what looked like natural blond highlights, bright blue eyes, a beautiful smile—yeah, he was smiling which I thought was a good sign—great teeth, totally even features. I couldn’t tell much about his body because of the baggy T-shirt, faded jeans, and old flip flops he was wearing. A clean-cut masculine face that might be described as angelic, but not in the least effeminate. His looks perfectly matched his voice.
At this—what was probably one of the most critical moments in my life—I somehow managed to say what turned out to be exactly the right thing.
“You’re beautiful. That explains it.”
His brow furrowed—I’ll have to say something about that brow later.
“Explains what? What do you mean?”
“Let’s sit down. It explains everything—all the questions I’ve had. Why you had no real friends, no girlfriend. Why you don’t trust people or get close to them. Why you were so frightened of meeting me. I thought it was because you were ugly and ashamed. It’s exactly the opposite. Not sure how to put this—you’re handsome and ashamed.”
He looked a bit wary. “What do you mean?”
“As good-looking as you are, I bet you’ve had a problem all your life knowing whether people liked you for yourself or for your looks.
“I’d guess that other kids would want to be your friend just because being with you would make them look better.
“You’re too intelligent and sensitive not to have figured that out pretty fast—that they were using you. I bet you got hurt enough times that that’s the reason you decided most people couldn’t be trusted.”
I looked up at him, and the wariness had changed into a small smile. Then it kind of poured out of him, stuff that I got the impression he’d kept bottled up for years.
“I can’t believe it, Marc, but you’re right—well, partly right.
“A lot of kids were friendly, but it’s hard to explain—they weren’t real. I could tell. They acted the way some of them do around teachers—sucking up, pretending to be good just to get the grade. It seemed like they’d say whatever they thought I wanted to hear.
“But there was another bunch too—the ones that resented me. They thought I was a dumb blond or a pretty face—stuck up or conceited or spoiled or gay—no offense.
“Some of them thought I got good grades only because the teachers liked me. The way they figured it, I was obviously too good looking to be smart. Fuck, I studied—and studied hard.
“When I talked to my parents about it, they thought I was exaggerating everything. Their solution was to tell me to be proud of the way I looked. Like that would help.
“I’ve never understood why I felt that way because there are lots of other guys out there like me who are cool with it and seem to really get off on all the attention, even if people don’t mean it. It doesn’t work that way with me for some reason.
“I could have had any girl I wanted from, God knows, the age of twelve or thirteen, but they were the same way—clingy and fake. It was like they wanted to be my girlfriend so everybody would know how great they were—not because they really cared about me.
“So it was hard getting close to anybody. I never knew what they wanted.
“The thing that was great about talking to you was that you always told me the truth. You made me feel good when you thought I was right, but you also let me know when you felt I was full of crap. You argued with me when you thought I was wrong. I knew where I stood with you.
“Like that lit paper you didn’t like because you thought my transitions were weak. We must have fought about that for an hour—maybe longer. You never gave in.”
“Nope. I guess that was the first—only?—serious argument we ever had.”
“You don’t bullshit me. Except for my parents and maybe some of my teachers, I think you’re one of the few people who have ever really been honest with me. Maybe that’s why I like rule number two.”
“Then I’m glad that we met the way we did and that you made us wait two months.”
“Why?” His brow furrowed again.
“Don’t you see? I know I said I’d never mention this, but I told you the second time we talked that I thought I’d fallen for you. That hasn’t changed, Bart, but it wasn’t because of what you looked like since, of course, I didn’t know what you looked like.
“It was because of—what?—your mind? your personality? your soul?—I don’t know what to call it. It was because of you and what I’d learned about you—even in just that first conversation.
“And in case you haven’t noticed,” I smiled, “I haven’t changed my opinion. We’ve become friends with one another in a way that can’t have had anything to do with your looks. It all has to do with—again, I don’t know—the person inside you.
“So you don’t have to worry about all that shit—at least with me. You’ll always know with certainty that I like who you are, not what you look like. That’s got to be worth something.”
“Maybe everything.”
“Bullshit. Maybe that’s a little dramatic?” I smiled.
He smiled back. “Maybe. See what I mean about your calling me out? You don’t let me get away with stuff.”
“Hey.”
“What?”
“Since neither of us struck the other dead, let’s go get something to eat.”
“That would be cool.”
Chapter 7
He was on hi
s bike, and I had my car.
“Leave it locked up here and come with me in the car. I’ll bring you back.”
“No, I’d rather ride. Give me some time to think.”
“Let’s go to the Willow. You know where It is? It shouldn’t be too busy on a Tuesday night.”
“Sure.”
I walked him to his bike and then he followed me on his bike to the lot where my car was parked. We were both quiet, and I admit I was trying to look at him a little more closely without being too obvious about it.
I mentioned earlier that he was wearing baggy clothes and old flip-flops. I wondered if he’d purposely dressed down to make himself look less attractive.
The flip-flops I thought I understood immediately. They were a concession to my foot fetish. He might not have quite understood it, but he was willing to show he accepted it by wearing stuff that he knew I liked even if our relationship wasn’t a sexual one. I know that sounds demented, but I believed it and was touched by the gesture. I smiled to myself.
At least I thought it was to myself, but it must have shown on my face. He caught it as I looked up from glancing at his feet, and he smiled back broadly. Neither of us said a word, but he knew what I’d been doing, and he knew that I knew that he knew. A little convoluted to express, but it was the very first instance of a kind of telepathy—a sympathetic communication—that would develop between us—not having to finish sentences, knowing what the other meant. It was a shorthand that would sometimes confuse people we were with.
“Ride safely,” I said as he took off.
“You really are anal, aren’t you?” But he said it with a smile.
I got to the Willow first and took an isolated table for four in the corner so we could talk. He arrived about ten minutes later.
He sat down in the chair immediately to my left, and I smiled.
“Why the grin?” he asked.
“Because you sat next to me, rather than across from me.”