Babycakes by Armistead Maupin

desert. Michael remained behind in the Big Tent, a solitary sultan engrossed in the silence. By nightfall, it seemed he had lived there forever.
He rose and walked toward the hills, following the pale ribbon of the creekbed through the mesquite trees. It was much cooler now, and fresh young stars had begun to appear in the deep purple sky. After a while, he sat down next to a cactus that was actually casting a shadow in the moonlight. A breeze caressed him.
Time passed.
He got up and headed back to camp, almost mesmerized by the amber luminescence of the Big Tent, the faint heartlike pulse of its walls, the gentle laughter from within. As he was about to enter, one of the canvas tarps trapped the rising wind like a spinnaker on a galleon, then ripped free from its restraints. Several people groaned in unison.
“Can I help?” he hollered.
“Michael?” It was Roger’s voice.
“Yeah. Want me to make repairs?”
“Fabulous. It’s over here. This back part just flapped open again.”
“Where?” His hands fumbled in the shadows until he found the hole. “Here?”
“Bingo,” said Gary.
Bringing the errant canvas under control, he laced the twine through the eyelets and pulled it tight. Then he made his way back to the front of the tent and lifted the flap.
They had dispensed with the Coleman lantern, having learned the night before that it didn’t have a dimmer switch. Paul’s inspired alternative was a heavy-duty flashlight in a brown paper bag, which was presently casting a golden Rembrandt glow on the six men sprawled across the Oriental rug Gary had received from his wife in their divorce settlement.
Gary sat against the ice chest, Roger’s head resting in his lap. Douglas and Paul, the other pair of lovers, were idly rummaging through a pile of cassette tapes in the far corner of the tent. Ned was giving the hard-working Scotty a foot massage with Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion.
It was a charming tableau, sweet-spirited and oddly old-fashioned, like a turn-of-the-century photograph of a college football team, shoulder to shoulder, hand to thigh, lost in the first blush of male bonding.
“Thanks,” said Gary, as Michael entered.
“No sweat,” he answered.
Ned looked up from his labors on Scotty’s feet. “You got some sun, bubba.”
“Did I?” He pressed a finger to his biceps. “I think it’s the lighting.”
“No,” Gary assured him. “It looks real good.”
“Thanks.” He entered and stretched out on the empty spot next to Ned and Scotty.
Scotty grinned at him blissfully. “There’s some trail mix and cheese, if you’re still hungry.”
“No way,” he replied.
After a brief exchange of eye signals, Roger and Gary rose, dusting off the seats of their pants. “Well, guys,” said Roger, “it’s been a long day….”
“Uh-oh,” piped Scotty. “We just lost the newlyweds.”
Roger’s embarrassment was heartrending. With a sudden stab of pain, Michael remembered the early days when he and Jon had been equally awkward about this maneuver. “Give ‘em a break,” said Ned, laughing. “They don’t have a tent. They have to have privacy sometime.”
“And they’ve been working like Trojans,” added Douglas.
The departing Gary shot a look of amiable menace in Douglas’s direction. “I’ll get you for that.”
“For what?” asked Scotty, after the lovers had left.
Douglas smiled. “Gary brought rubbers.”
Three people said “What?” at the same time.
Douglas shrugged. “They don’t call it a crisis for nothin’.”
“Well, I know, but …” Douglas was almost sputtering, “Forget that. I’m willing to do my bit … but c’mon.”
Ned unleashed one of his mysterious grins. “I think they’re kinda fun myself.”
“Why?” asked Douglas. “Because they make you think of straight boys?”
“Marines,” said Paul, embellishing on his lover’s theme.
“I don’t fantasize about straight men,” Ned said flatly. “I’ve never sucked a cock that wasn’t gay.”
“So