"Hello, Macho Man, can I help you?"
"I saw your ad in Honcho. I—well—I—I'm interested—"
"Which of the men do you want to talk to?"
He paused.
"Bruce," he said.
"Okay, let me just check—yes, Brace is available. Now, have you used Macho Man before?"
"No."
"Okay, then I'll just explain how it works. Our rates are thirty-five dollars for the first half-hour, thirty for the second half-hour. You can pay with MasterCard, Visa, or American Express. After you give your card number and your phone number, I'll call Bruce and he'll call you. We pay for all phone charges that way."
Owen took a gulp of bourbon. "Okay," he said. He read out his office phone number. He read out his American Express number.
"Okay, Mr. Benjamin, now I'll just get an approval code on that card number and Bruce will call you back. Is there anything special you want me to tell him?"
"No," Owen said.
"All right, you'll be hearing from him shortly."
Owen hung up, poured more bourbon into his glass. After a few minutes the phone rang.
"Yeah, this is Bruce."
Owen laughed involuntarily. "Hi, Bruce."
"What's your name, cocksucker?"
"Bowen."
"Asslicker. You want to suck my cock?" Bruce said.
Owen took another gulp of bourbon. "Sure," he said.
"You better do better than 'Sure,'" Bruce said. "'Cause I want it bad." He growled. "I'm sitting here in my hardhat, I just got off an asskicking day at the site. I've got on my oldest pair of jeans, my cock is aching, it's so hard inside my jock. My wife won't go near me. I ain't had a piece of ass for weeks. You know how that makes your cock feel?"
"Uh-huh."
"I know you know. So you'll help me out, buddy, won't you?" Brace said. "You gonna take it out for me?"
"Uh-huh."
"Yeah, that's right. You're taking it out, you're licking it—oh yeah, that feels good, you fairy cocksucker. Better than my wife can do, let me tell you. Yeah, that's right. Suck my thick rod. Suck your hardhat daddy's thick rod."
Owen started to cry.
"Hey," Bruce said, after a moment. "Hey, easy there. What's wrong?"
Owen cried. "Hey, man, chill out," Brace said. "Are you okay?"
Owen tried to control the sobs heaving through him. He blew his nose, noticed his wedding ring, burst into tears again.
"Are you okay?" Bruce said. "What's going on? Did I do something wrong?"
Owen cried. "I'm sorry," he managed to say. "Go on."
"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," Bruce said, and Owen cried.
"Bowen? Bowen?" Brace said. "Is that your name? Listen, do you want something more vanilla? Do you want me to hang up or what?"
No answer.
"Bowen?" Bruce asked. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Owen hung up.
Philip had just come back from work and was in the shower when the phone started ringing. He leapt out, nearly slipping on the wet floor, terrified in case it was Eliot.
"Philip, it's your father," Owen said, surprising him with the familiarity of his voice. It had been a long time since they had spoken on the phone.
"Dad," Philip said, pulling a towel around himself, "how are you?"
"Fine, fine," Owen said. "I was just sitting here in my office after a day's work and I started thinking—it certainly has been a long time since I called my son. So I thought I'd give you a ring."
"Well, that's great," Philip said, "just great. I'm very happy you decided to." He settled himself uncomfortably into a chair. "So—are you well?" he asked.
"Let's not talk about me," Owen said briskly. "I called to tell you—well, I just wanted you to know, your being gay—is okay by me. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, is there?"
Was he drunk? Philip sank farther into the chair. He could not be sure if he was drunk. His father never drank much—at least not as far as he knew.
Soapy water dripped from him, like cold sweat, and he realized he had to give an answer. "Well," he said, "as far as I'm concerned, the only thing that's wrong is hiding the truth. That's what I feel."
"Exactly," Owen said. "So I say, bravo."
"Bravo?"
"Yes. Bravo."
He was drunk. "Dad," Philip said, "this is a real surprise to me. I mean, it just never occurred to me you might call me like this. I'm very touched, very happy."
"I'm glad," Owen said. "Because that's why I did it."
"It's very important to me to have your approval. It always has been. But do you know—is Mom feeling any better about all of this?"
"Oh, your mother," Owen said, and Philip closed his eyes. "You know your mother. Creature of moods. I'm sure she'll be fine soon."
Philip was quiet a moment. "Yes," he said. "I suppose."
Then there was some sort of confusion on Owen's end of the line—a wet crashing, a gasp. "Dad?" Philip said. "Dad? Are you there? Are you okay?"
"What? Oh, fine, son. Just fine. I just dropped the phone for a second. Now listen—I want you to tell me something. Can you always tell when someone is gay, just right off?"
Philip gulped again. "Well," he said, "I mean—it's hard to say. Sometimes, I guess—"
"How can you tell?"
"Because gay people give off signals to other gay people, I guess—little signals that individually, maybe, aren't noticeable, or aren't noticeable to someone who isn't attuned to picking them up. I mean, it's like they give off a little sexual buzz around men but not around women. Do you see what I mean?" He himself hardly knew what he meant.
"The reason I'm asking," Owen said, "is because there's a young English teacher here—well, to be blunt, I can't tell what he is." He laughed strangely. "But he's very charming, very nice, and—well, if he is, you know—gay—I think you might like him."
Philip didn't answer.
"Philip?" Owen said. "Philip? Are you all right? Is that a bad thing of me to say?" His voice suddenly grew much softer. "Oh, I knew it was a mistake," he said. "Forget it, just forget I called."
"No, no," Philip said. "It's just—well, it's just a little bit of a surprise to find myself being fixed up by my father. I'm just a little taken off guard, Dad." He laughed, actually pronouncing the syllables: "Ha-ha."
"I knew it was a mistake," Owen said. "Just forget about it."
"No, Dad, I don't want to forget about it, really," Philip said. "I—I appreciate your thinking of me." He tried to steady his breathing. "What more can you tell me about him?"
"Not much. His name is Winston Penn. He's Southern, I think. Very handsome, charming—that is, at least he seems thai way to me. I mean, the women here, they're all crazy about him, but he doesn't seem to have a girlfriend, which is why I wondered—"
"Well, you never can tell."
"No," Owen agreed. "You never can tell."
Again, there was some sort of catastrophe on Owen's end of the line. "Listen, Dad," Philip said, "I really appreciate your thinking of me—but if he isn't gay, it could be embarrassing, very embarrassing, for you as well as me—and anyway, even if he is, if he's so handsome and wonderful, I'm sure he has a boyfriend already."
"You're right," Owen said, still sniffling a little. "Which is why I wouldn't think of doing anything too deliberate. But it doesn't have to be an official date. I was just thinking—maybe I'd invite him to dinner one Sunday, when you come over—well, who knows. I'd like to do this for you. I very much like this young man, and—well, I'd be happy if you like him too. But I'll think about it. We'll see."
"I do appreciate your concern, Dad, even if it may not sound that way." Philip paused. "I mean, it's very special having a father who would do something like this—so special it's even a little surprising for me. But I feel very lucky to know my father cares so much. To be honest, it's more than I ever expected."
He smiled, as if Owen could see him.
"It's nothing," Owen said.
A beep sounded. "
Just a second," Philip said, and pushed down the receiver buttons. Brad was on the other line. "Hold on a second," Philip said. "Have I got a story for you."
He clicked back to his father. "Dad," he said. "I have to take this call. Can I call you back tomorrow?"
"What's happening?" Owen said. "Where did you go? Why did you cut me off?"
"I didn't, it's just my call waiting."
"I don't understand," Owen said. "You were there and then you were gone. Did you cut me off? I don't understand."
"It's nothing, Dad," Philip said. "It just means I have another call. Listen, I'll talk to you soon, okay?"
"Okay. Goodbye, son."
"Goodbye."
He pushed down the buttons on the top of the phone, and Brad returned. "My God," Philip said.
"What's wrong?" asked Brad.
"I just had the strangest conversation with my father."
"What about?"
"Well, he was asking me a whole lot of questions—things like, 'how can you tell if someone's gay.' And then he suddenly announces there's this young teacher at the school he thinks is gay, and he wants to fix me up with him."
"You're kidding."
"No I'm not kidding. I mean, what should I think? I want to run away from him. I know that's terrible. Isn't this a good thing—doesn't it mean he's really taking my being gay seriously?"
"I guess it does," Brad said.
"You sound doubtful."
"I've just never heard of a parent doing anything like that."
"It's not something you could imagine your parents doing?" Brad spoke often and lovingly about his parents.
"I would die of embarrassment if they ever tried to fix me up," Brad said. "I think they would die of embarrassment, too. Which simply means, they have their limits, and they're happy to take advantage of my embarrassment since it means they can stick to them."
"There is something a little weird about it."
"Maybe your father's secretly gay and has a wild homosexual life," Brad said, and laughed.
"Brad!" Philip laughed. "He's my father. He's married to my mother."
"It's probably one of those mid-life things," Brad said. "Maybe he's just fascinated by homosexuality because he's bored, because it's something different that he doesn't know anything about."
"Yes," Philip said. "That's probably what it is."
Owen thought of Winston Penn as he wandered out of the Harte School into the evening street. He ran into Winston every day, if not in the lunch room, then outdoors, during sports hour. Most afternoons he was obliged to take prospectives and their parents on a tour of the school, and sometimes to the playing fields on Randall's Island, where Winston coached lacrosse. "Look at our lacrosse team," he'd say, in mock astonishment. "The coach this year is Winston Penn, one of the younger members of our English department. In general, the faculty volunteer to coach the sports with which they're well acquainted." Then the parents would look on approvingly at those ruddy, athletic boys and their handsome young coach. The boys followed Winston like puppies.
Owen often sat with Winston at lunch. Most of the younger faculty were snobbish about their youth and kept to themselves in cliquish circles, but Winston even sat through lunches with old Herr Klappert of the German Department, listening to his excruciating memories, waiting patiently through his coughing fits. It was no secret that some of the fruitier members of the faculty were besotted with Winston. In particular the calculus teacher, Stan Edersheim, was shameless. Owen felt contempt for Stan, with his ascot and Don Ameche mustache, and never for a moment drew any parallel between his loud, obvious infatuation with Winston and Owen's own more restrained admiration. Often when he arrived at the lunch room he was dismayed to discover that Stan had gotten there first and was monopolizing Winston, leaning close to him, loudly laughing at his jokes. Then Owen would slog through his lunch with the head of the History Department, sometimes catching Winston's eye to give him a conspiratorial smile. But Winston actually seemed to enjoy Stan's company. Once, in fact, when Winston was eating lunch with Owen and Stan came in, Winston got up from the table and shouted across the room, "Stan, my man!" and Stan came over to join them. Immediately Stan started in with stories about famous old actresses. "I said to her, 'So, honey, are you planning to work on Passover?' She said, 'Stan, you know I don't do game shows.'" Owen spooned his soup and felt sick—was Stan whom he was doomed to become?—while at the same moment a flash of heat passed through him as he remembered that under the table, wrapped in flannel, dry now, inactive, were those same blond legs he had watched with such admiration on the playing field. And thinking that, guilt flooded him as he realized he was no better than Stan, that indeed, Stan was better than he. For rather than making him unattractive, Stan's forwardness appeared to be paying off; he was now that much closer to Winston, that much more his confidant and friend, while Owen still waited miserably on the fringe, hoping for a secret glance he knew was never going to come. No one doubted that Stan was homosexual. And as a result, Owen supposed, he had nothing to lose. Why not be frank? Was restraint really such an admirable thing? Perhaps Winston was suspicious of Owen's restraint, saw stealth and plot ting under the calm, steady surface of his paternal kindness. There was no stealth, nothing undercover in Stan's behavior, and Winston probably liked that about him, found his frank sexual interest stimulating or intriguing. Immediately Owen's perspective on the situation turned; now he was the slimy one, the cowardly snake in the grass, working under false pretenses, waiting to pounce.
He left lunch feeling pathetic.
Also elated. For he had one card he hadn't played; he had Philip.
The day after he'd called to tell Philip about Winston Penn he called again. "Philip?" he found himself saying into the phone. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering—Rose has a late meeting tonight, and—well, I'd like to buy my son dinner."
Philip again sounded surprised, but he had no plans for the evening. On his suggestion, they met at a Japanese restaurant on Columbus Avenue. The window was full of shellacked sushi and tempura. The real food also looked like toys, like food that aliens would eat, but Philip claimed to be living on it these days.
In the dark depths of the restaurant, where they sat, tiny flakes of dried fish writhed and curled atop a steaming broth, as if they were alive. Smelt eggs illuminated sushi like miniature lamps. Cautiously Owen tasted things. "Be careful with the wasabi," Philip said, "it's murderous."
Finally they got down to talking. "Ever since your announcement to your mother and me, son," Owen said to Philip, "well, there are things I've been wondering, wanting to ask you. I'm very interested, you see, in your experience growing up, I guess because we've never talked about it before. I know you must think I've been a distant father, not all there, really, but the truth is, I've always been observing you, always interested in you, although sometimes you probably couldn't tell. In certain basic ways, I suppose, I'm very... reserved." His hands twisted in his lap. "I've never been very good at expressing affection, much less asking personal questions, Philip. And then you come home with this news which really is news to me, though it shouldn't be—and I thought, damn it, enough of this. I'm tired of being so... restrained. I should ask what I want to know. I should take an interest in my son." He let out a breath of relief, as if he had gotten through something very difficult.
"I'm glad you feel that way, Dad," Philip said. "And I really don't mind. Ask anything you want."
Owen reached across the table for the little pitcher of sake and poured some into his cup. "Well," he said, "how did it start?"
"How did what start?"
"Your—sexual life."
Philip put his fingers to his mouth thoughtfully. "It's hard to say," he said. "I mean, well, to be frank, I've been masturbating with gay sexual fantasies for as long as I can remember—" He stopped, looked at his father cautiously. "Is that too much for you?"
"No, no," Owen said, even though it was. "Everyone does it." He laughed awkwardly, and Philip
turned away, suppressing a nervous smile. "I'm not smiling for any reason," he said quickly. "It's just that this happens to me sometimes—I smile at the most inappropriate moments. It's like my brain is pulling the wrong strings. Sorry."
"Don't worry," Owen said. "I remember how hard it was for me to imagine my parents having a sex life. It's perfectly natural. I can't expect you to be entirely comfortable talking about these things with me." He hesitated. "God knows," he said, "I'm not too comfortable talking about them myself."
Philip nodded, pushed his rice around for a few seconds. "Well, anyway," he said, "as I was saying, there was no real start. I guess I had my first sexual experience with a man—but no." He took a deep breath. "See, it depends on how you define virginity. I mean, Gerard and I fooled around when we were kids, but it wasn't really anything. And after that, the first real adult experience—I don't know, Dad, do you really want to hear this? It isn't all that pretty."
Owen nodded.
"Well," he said, "I had a sort of quasi-sexual experience with a much older man in a porno theatre on the Lower East Side, when I was seventeen. Not much, really. Some groping. I got out of there as fast as I could, I was so scared—and then there was nothing till college."
Owen's eyes were like glass. He stared straight at Philip, nodding slowly.
"I had sex with a medical student my freshman year," Philip said. "Then nothing for a long time. Then a few other little things—nothing that counts. And then senior year, Dmitri—remember my friend Dmitri? You met him at graduation."
Owen nodded.
"He and I were lovers—boyfriends, I should say—I never know what word to use. We were involved for six months or so, on and off; we never officially broke up. There was an understanding, I guess—the thing would just sort of peter out. He liked to say we weren't lovers, that we were just friends who had sex. Except we really weren't friends." He paused. "I don't know what we were," Philip said. "It's not a relationship I'm particularly proud of."
"And all through this," Owen said, "all through this you were sure—you knew you were gay?"
Philip nodded.
"How old were you when you knew? Did you know as a child?"
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