Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  Inside the theater lobby, I was comforted by the combination of warmth and the smell of popcorn. Eating popcorn at the movies was one of my favorite pastimes. When I was growing up, my father popped huge quantities in my mother’s spaghetti pot. On Friday nights, we watched television in the den. The aroma of kernels frying in olive oil crept up from the basement kitchen, making my mouth water, until my father arrived holding several bowls of hot, buttery popcorn.

  I was early that night. The lobby was crowded even for a weeknight, mostly with gay men, flirting when their boyfriends weren’t looking. I ignored them and searched for a mirror so that I could check on my hair. Glancing at my reflection in a candy counter window, I was horrified to see a mass of salt-and-pepper swirled on top of my head like a mound of cotton candy. I licked the palm of my hand and tried to mat it down again. I noticed Chad’s reflection as he entered the lobby behind me. He was dressed in a fitted black snow jacket with gold zippers, black jeans, and charcoal-gray lace-up leather boots. He was rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. When I turned around, our eyes met and he smiled.

  We crossed the crowded lobby. I took his arm, trying to navigate him past flirtatious eyes. I felt his body twinge with surprise at my touch, but he didn’t pull away. “Wait!” I said, coming to a halt. “I forgot. Do you want anything from the concession stand? How about some popcorn?”

  Chad flinched. He looked at me and began shaking his head violently, as though I had suggested liver and onions. “No thanks,” he said. “I’m not a big fan of popcorn. It sticks between my teeth.” I must have recoiled because Chad quickly followed that up with, “But go ahead. The chewing won’t bother me.”

  In life there are three things that make me suspicious of someone:

  1. People who don’t drink coffee.

  2. People who don’t like Chinese food.

  3. People who don’t eat movie-theater popcorn.

  I don’t know what bothered me more: the fact that Chad didn’t want to share a bucket of popcorn or his insinuation that chewing it might annoy him.

  Skipping the concession stand, we took the escalator to the screening room on the second floor and found seats in the middle section on the aisle. In the dark theater, I stared at the outline of Chad’s head against the light from the screen. I noticed the way his eyes sparkled as they caught the light. He was sexier to me now more than ever. Throughout the movie, I found myself leaning in toward him, wishing he’d reach out his hand and place it on mine. I tried to brush my knee up against his, but he didn’t reciprocate.

  I remembered the first night we met. Sitting at the bar, sipping cocktails and eating pizza at that Austrian restaurant, our legs had intertwined. That evening tingled with exciting possibilities. Back then, Chad seemed eager to get to know me, just as I tried to convince myself that he was too good to be true. Over the past five months, that energy still seemed to flow between us, but now in the opposite direction. After the movie, we left the theater and walked out into the cold and desolate night. By the time we reached the corner of Twenty-third Street and Tenth Avenue, several awkward silent moments had passed.

  Kiss him.

  I ignored the nagging voice in my head, worried that if I made any advances, Chad would reject me.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Thanks for the movie.”

  “No worries. Hope you liked it?”

  “It was different.”

  Kiss him.

  We stood there, shivering uncomfortably for several more seconds before we finally said our good-byes.

  That evening, I sat on the edge of my bed staring pathetically at Chad’s picture—the one he’d attached to that first e-mail he’d sent five months earlier—blaming myself for everything that had gone wrong, feeling the frustrating need to recall what it was that excited Chad about me, and wondering how I could get him to feel that way again.

  LATER THAT MONTH, my publicist threw a book party for me at a restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen. There was a private space in the back with a long staircase that led to a rooftop terrace. That night the sky was dark with heavy clouds and a crescent moon. My entire family came to support me. Even my sister Maria surprised me by flying up from Alabama. It looked like a scene from a Martin Scorsese movie. My five-foot mother was wearing a chocolate-brown wool suit with a bejeweled gold-lapel jacket and a pencil skirt. Maria wore a tight-fitted leopard-print dress, and Josephine had on a shimmering black-sequined top. They even managed to convince my father to put on a suit and tie. I wore the black suit Maria and her husband had bought me for Christmas.

  Standing at the entrance, I greeted people as they arrived. Lounge music played in the background. On the far wall, a projector flashed images of me taken by the photographer Aaron Cobbett. Eric and Scott arrived early. Seeing them calmed my nerves. Earlier my publicist had suggested I say a few words later in the evening. Usually I had no issues with public speaking, never have, but I was nervous that night. Though I wanted desperately to soothe my anxiety with alcohol, I decided to drink water instead. I knew that if I had even just one or two drinks, I’d end up slurring my words. Nothing would have been more embarrassing than to hear my inebriated voice amplified throughout the room. So I convinced myself to hold off on the cocktails until after my speech.

  As more people arrived, I stood in the same location, accepting their congratulations. For so much of my adult life, I’d compartmentalized people, placed them in buckets: family, friends, business associates, people I slept with. Tonight they were all here, intermingling and having fun.

  Nearly everyone I invited showed up. Initially, Dean thought he might attend but later cancelled. Since Chad and I hadn’t spoken since our movie date, I decided not to extend him an invitation. That was one compartment I was not prepared to share with everyone else just yet.

  When it came time for me to speak, I stood halfway up the staircase that led to the roof deck. Once the microphone was in my hand, I felt relief from the nervousness that had been brewing inside me up until that moment. Staring out and seeing all those familiar faces beaming with pride, I paused, wanting to savor this moment. I scanned the room. I saw my mother with tears in her eyes. There was Eric, giving me a wink. Even my cousin Alex appeared mesmerized, looking up at me. Then something more happened. I felt triumphant. And in that moment of joy, I remembered sitting in my office, googling William Fox and discovering his book.

  I was overcome with shame. My eyes found my father staring up at me. I smiled at him, hoping to resurrect that feeling of pride, and then I remembered his face that night at dinner when I admitted to my family that Bill had molested me. His face had been as impassive as a corpse’s. It hurt me to think of that now. I took a slow inhale. Everyone was waiting. Then I began to perspire. What had started as a fun, successful night was now erased by the memory of Bill. When the jarring sound of the microphone’s feedback through the speaker system shook me from my trance, I began to speak. Ten minutes later, it was over. I was relieved. Once I was done and the applause faded away, so did any residual feeling of happiness, and in its place I felt empty inside.

  When I returned home that night, I e-mailed Dean. “The party was great. I’m sorry you missed it. I made sure that not an ounce of alcohol touched my lips before I took the microphone. I wanted to be completely sober. I don’t remember what I said, but it was wonderful to see a room full of people there to celebrate this accomplishment with me. I wish there was a way to put that moment in a pill so if I ever wanted to remember how all that love felt, all I would have to do is swallow that pill and all those warm feelings would return. I’m embarrassed to say that there was a point when I thought of Bill. He nearly ruined the evening for me, but believe it or not, I didn’t obsess over the negative. Normally, I would fixate over this, but not tonight. Tonight it was all about me. I felt proud of myself, and that’s something I’m not used to. Sorry I didn’t get to meet you.”

  To my surprise, Dean wrote back immediately. First, he congratulated me for not obs
essing over the negative. He was shocked because he thought of me as someone who usually obsesses over the bad stuff, and I should let the party mark a profound change in my personality. Regardless of everything else that had happened to me, Dean felt I was a genuine, kind person who had worked hard to become a doctor. Being single was the last piece of the puzzle that needed to fit into place. He ended by suggesting we meet the first week in February.

  I got into bed and stared out the window, which was rippling with rain. I couldn’t explain to myself the mixture of feelings I was experiencing: pride that I had written a book, shame that I let Chad get away, anger with Bill for destroying my party, and stupidity for lying about it to Dean. We didn’t meet the week Dean was in town. He didn’t mention it once in any of the e-mails that followed, and I simply convinced myself that he was too busy to make time for me. Of course, I was disappointed. Over the years, I’ve met other victims of child molestation. We’re attracted to one another like moths to a bug zapper, picking up on the insecure cues we give off: being overly flirtatious, thriving on our desperate need for attention, and relying on self-deprecation to entertain others.

  Initially, we’re excited to learn about this commonality we share, but eventually it repels us from one another. We see each other as a mirror, reflecting our worst characteristics, and that becomes too unbearable. I called this the blame game. This was how I rationalized why Dean and I should never meet, and I convinced myself that it was better to know him online than not to know him at all.

  CHAPTER 8

  Out Like a Lyon

  TWO EXCITING THINGS HAPPENED IN FEBRUARY: My publisher arranged a book signing at Barnes & Noble in Manhattan later that month (a dream come true for me) and another in San Francisco at A Different Light in March. Even better, Chad asked me on another date.

  It was a Thursday, what Gloria called “Tushy Day,” when I received Chad’s text. I was in my office, performing anal Pap smears. That afternoon, I was in consultation with a young man from London named Donovan. “Why don’t you get undressed and I’ll take a look down there?” I said. Just then, my cell phone jingled in my lab coat. It was a text from Chad. He wrote: Hey, it’s been a while. I’ve been traveling like crazy for work. Any chance you want to come with me to the Chelsea Art Tour on Saturday? It starts at 10 A.M. Let me know and I’ll buy tickets.

  I responded immediately. “That sounds like a great idea. Where shall I meet you?”

  That Saturday, it was unseasonably warm, but the wind, coming up from the Hudson, made it feel ten degrees chillier. I waited for Chad at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Tenth Avenue. Down the block, fifteen gay men gathered outside one of the galleries, but there was no sign of Chad. Standing there at the corner, I felt a sudden convulsion of embarrassment thinking about our last date. I promised myself that this time I was going to listen to my inner voice and be more spontaneous. When Chad suddenly appeared across the street, I quickly shook off that memory and smiled as he approached. He was wearing a dark brown suede jacket and blue jeans. And someone was with him. Suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps Chad didn’t intend for this to be a date. By the time they reached me, the smile had faded from my face.

  “Hi,” said Chad, kissing me on the cheek. “This is my friend Michael Lyon.” Michael was a tall man with pale skin and black hair. He was wearing a long, dark coat and tight black-and-white-striped pants that looked like Spandex. “Michael is a friend of mine from Arizona.”

  “Oh, are you visiting?” I asked.

  “No, Michael lives here. He’s retired but produces gay films.” I looked at Michael, who nodded in agreement. “We should hurry,” Chad continued. “Otherwise we’ll be late.”

  We made our way over to the crowd. A short, balding man identified himself as the tour guide and asked for our tickets. In exchange, he handed each of us an itinerary of galleries and exhibits that were part of the tour.

  On our way to the first stop, I asked Michael, “So which movies have you produced?”

  Michael smiled and remained silent.

  Chad stepped in between us and said, “Have you heard of Slutty Summer?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  Chad began to describe the story. All the while I kept glancing over at Michael. There was something suspicious about him, even more peculiar than his Freddie Mercury pants. Then I realized that he hadn’t said a single word, not even “hello” or “nice to meet you,” and I found that very bizarre. As soon as we entered the first gallery, I pulled Chad off to the side, and when I was sure Michael was out of earshot, I asked, “Is your friend okay?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Don’t worry about Michael. He can take care of himself.”

  At the second gallery, we were directed to the third floor. Since the elevators were out of service, we took the stairs. I felt as if I were back in grammar school, marching along with the others for a fire drill. Chad followed behind me as we ascended. When we were momentarily detained on the second-floor landing, I accidentally backed into Chad and our fingers touched. Feeling his warm skin against mine, I instinctively heard the voice inside my head urging me to be spontaneous, and I grabbed ahold of his hand. Better still, he didn’t pull away, and our hands remained clasped tightly together until we reached the third floor. We lost contact walking through the entrance where the crowd funneled into the gallery. I didn’t mind letting go because I knew he was mine. As I glanced over my shoulder, Chad entered the gallery and smiled. In that moment, I knew he felt the same way.

  When Michael found us, he put his arms around our shoulders and said, “Hey, kids, what you say we cut out of here and go get some champagne?”

  “You can talk!” I said.

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course I can talk. Honey, I was a lawyer, for Christ’s sake. Chad said I could come along only if I promised to act like a mute so that I didn’t monopolize the conversation.”

  “I knew it wouldn’t take long,” said Chad. “Guess you’re paying for drinks.”

  “KEEP IT COMING.” Michael tossed his Platinum American Express on the bar. I noticed the way the young, spiky-haired bartender’s eyes widened when he saw that card. Within minutes, the bartender filled an orange bucket with ice and opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Michael immediately began to engage him. “What’s your name?”

  “Michael likes them young,” Chad whispered in my ear.

  “I heard that,” said Michael without looking backward. Chad reached over and grabbed two glasses off the bar. Michael swiftly turned around. “Don’t even think about drinking one sip without a toast.”

  “Michael always has to make a toast.”

  “To my good friend Chad,” said Michael. “And to my new friend, Dr. Frank . . . may you make beautiful babies together.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You don’t happen to have your prescription pad with you?” asked Michael.

  “No. I don’t usually carry it around with me.”

  Several hours and four bottles of champagne later, Michael was telling us about a trip to Brazil for Chad’s fortieth birthday. He was simultaneously talking to us and the bartender, whose name we were told was Dylan. I felt myself swaying as I tried to maintain focus. “So our tour guide was driving us through the favelas when we got pulled over by some drug lords with automatic weapons,” said Michael.

  The day had somehow unexpectedly taken a turn for the better. Michael’s presence brought Chad and me closer together, closing the gap we had been unable to fill on our own. Unfortunately, I didn’t know how much longer I could hang on. In the fog of inebriation, all I heard were remnants of Michael’s story mixed with Chad’s laughter. Discreetly, I leaned over and whispered in Chad’s ear, “Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got to go before I pass out.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said. Then he turned and interrupted Michael. “We’re gonna head out.”

  Michael looked over at us, stunned. “Leaving so soon?”

  “It was so nice to
meet you, Michael,” I said. The room felt like it was on a tilt. I didn’t even wait for him to say good-bye. I grabbed my coat and exited the bar, clutching the edges of bar stools and random men’s shoulders as I teetered out the door and into the welcoming brisk air.

  That day Chad came home with me. Inside my apartment, we kissed. I maneuvered him into the bedroom as he unbuttoned his shirt. Clumsily, I kicked off my boots and pulled down my pants. I threw him down on the bed and we had sex, awkward but intriguing, exciting sex. Afterward, we lay quietly for a long while, side by side, naked and breathless. Finally, I asked, “So did you really tell Michael to pretend he was a mute?”

  Chad laughed loud enough that it filled up my bedroom. “No, that was his stupid idea. I went along with it, knowing Michael couldn’t keep it going. You heard him at the bar. He doesn’t shut up.”

  “I feel awful leaving him there,” I added. “Will he be all right?”

  “Don’t worry about Michael Lyon.” Chad turned over and put his arms around me. “He probably convinced Dylan to go home with him by promising him a part in his next movie.”

  “I suppose you know him better than I do,” I said, stroking Chad’s arm with my fingertips. I felt the coarseness of his hair bristle against my touch. Then I had an idea. “Hey, what are you doing next week?”

  “I’m not sure. I might be traveling again for work.”

  “Well, if you’re in town, I’ll be at Barnes & Noble on February twenty-eighth. My publisher arranged a book reading.”

  Chad sat up. “How cool is that? I’ve never been to a book reading.” Then he stood up and walked into the bathroom.

  While Chad showered, I slipped on my jeans, walked across the cold floor, and collapsed onto the couch. As I listened to the shower run, I began to worry about what would happen next. I suspected Chad would get dressed and come up with some reason to leave: busy day tomorrow, need to prepare for some big meeting, have to feed the cat. Whatever it was, I told myself not to appear disappointed. It bothered me that I wasn’t a stronger person. Someone who could take charge and say, “Hey, you want to grab a bite to eat?” or “You know, that was fun, but I have to get up early tomorrow.” For once, I wanted to be the person who navigated the relationship instead of waiting for someone else to tell me what was going to happen next.