Remembering Christmas by Drew Ferguson

history, and he was particularly fascinated by the industrial titans of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. His dream project, an epic-length history of the Homestead strike, had been in development for almost ten years and gone through five screenwriters and seven scripts.
    â€œThank God, I won’t be too old to play Andrew Carnegie until I’m seventy-five,” he laughed. “One more for the road?”
    â€œI have a long drive ahead of me tomorrow.”
    â€œNo excuse. So do I.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œPhiladelphia.”
    â€œPhiladelphia! You can walk to Philadelphia from here!”
    â€œExactly. Which is why I’m in no rush.”
    â€œWell, I have to be on the road by seven.”
    â€œThat’s hours away. You can get into a lot of trouble between now and daybreak.”
    â€œI know. That’s why I’m going to call it a day.”
    â€œI don’t have to stay all night. You can kick me out after you’ve had your way with me.”
    Archie Duncan’s smile could be interpreted several ways: either the comment was all in jest, a harmless bit of fun, or it was a formal declaration of interest. James felt himself wavering, intrigued by the possibility of a night of lust and passion with a television star. It was flattering. Hell, it was more than flattering; it was downright amazing that a man like Archie Duncan was interested in him. Then again, if ever there was an occasion to not be impulsive, this was it. They were middle-aged men, after all, and years of experience had taught James the sweet rewards to be gained by taking things slowly and exercising patience.
    â€œI told you I was a stickler for good manners. I would never throw a guest out on the streets in the middle of the night. And I’m out of milk and coffee, and I’d hate to send you on your way without breakfast.”
    Archie laughed and grabbed a cocktail napkin off the bar and asked the bartender for a pen. He scribbled his number and shoved the rumpled paper in James’s pocket.
    â€œLet me give you mine,” James said.
    â€œNot necessary. Alex already gave it to me. So, are you free New Year’s Eve?”
    â€œYes,” he said, regretting his quick response, fearing it made him sound like a loser.
    â€œI will pick you up at eight. And don’t worry. I’ll bring my own toothbrush so I taste all minty fresh when I kiss you good morning.”
    The good-night kiss was friendly, chaste. James certainly wasn’t going to compromise a Page Six celebrity by swapping spit in the face of his curious public.
    It was significantly colder on the street, as the temperature had dropped sharply after midnight. James pulled his scarf around his neck and shoved his hands in his pockets, stamping his feet for warmth as he waited for an empty cab. He looked at his watch. It was only twelve-thirty, hardly the witching hour. He felt old beyond his years, a middle-aged stick in the mud who had just passed up an opportunity to sleep with a bona fide leading man who was interested enough to have gotten his number from Alex. Was he so goddamn ancient he wouldn’t be able to survive on three or four hours sleep tomorrow, especially knowing he could practically hibernate in West Virginia the rest of the week? Alex would be ashamed of him. Christ, he was ashamed of himself. What self-respecting gay man turned down an opportunity to have sex with Archie Duncan to ensure he got his proper beauty rest? He turned on his heels and marched back to The Townhouse, his face flush with anticipation, actually feeling the stirring of an erection in his pants, only to stop dead in his tracks halfway across the crowded barroom, seeing that Archie Duncan was otherwise occupied, locked in a tongue-chewing embrace with one of his adoring fans.
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    Whoever wrote there’s no place like home for the holidays never had to travel more than a mile to reach the family