He’s fallen for it so many times, letting guys do things to him just because being wanted still felt, even after many years, like an opportunity that might not come again.
Without warning, everyone he’s ever had sex with is in the apartment with him now, crowding him, heavy breaths on the back of his neck, damp as drafty air. There’s one in particular: his name was Darren, a dancer with haunches like a thoroughbred and a dazzling white smile. He worked on a cruise ship, performing in some kind of Broadway revue, and he had docked in New York for half a week. Darren had spotted Robin at a bar in the West Village, Uncle Charlie’s, and had rescued him from a drunk in an ugly knit sweater whom he couldn’t shake. By the time Darren shipped out again, Robin had lost track of what day it was. He’d followed him back to the small hotel room where he’d been put up for the week, and since then had hardly seen the light of day. After the second day, they’d scrapped the condoms. Darren had assured him he didn’t have “it,” and Robin, not yet nineteen, didn’t know not to trust a stranger with a voice like music and the body of a satyr.
He wonders, not for the first time, did Peter ever see beyond the surface, did he care about me beyond his lust? Was Peter simply hot for him, while Robin was convinced they were falling in love?
The phone clangs, snapping him from the dream. The ringer is loud; there’s only one phone in the apartment and they need to be able to hear it from every room.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Robin.” It’s Peter.
“I was just thinking about you!” He tamps down his excitement, and adds, “On and off, all night.”
“I’m just saying hi. I was a little concerned.”
A little concerned is a start, something to work with. “Can I see you?” Robin asks.
“Um, I could swing by in the morning.”
“Not tonight?” Robin already knows this isn’t what Peter wants. He pushes anyway, “I just think, if we could talk—”
“Yeah, um, but my plans…I’m on my way to meet…” He cuts himself off.
“You caught me by surprise, and I didn’t get to ask everything I wanted to.”
“I’m meeting Diana and a bunch of her friends at this place. It’ll be crowded.”
“A bar?”
“A club.”
“Which one?”
“I forget the name. Something with an R.”
“Is it a gay club?”
“I think it’s mixed. New wave music. Diana wanted to go.” Silence. “So, yeah, just saying hi.”
No invitation is forthcoming. “Okay, then. Tomorrow. Come by around noon.”
After he hangs up, Robin is all agitation. Why bother calling if…? And then he gets an idea. On Peter’s last trip, he and Robin went to the gay bookstore, Giovanni’s Room, and spent an hour browsing. Peter bought him a gift, a copy of The Memoirs of Hadrian , about a gay Roman emperor, a book that Peter said helped him realize how ancient and storied the history of homosexuality was. The guy behind the counter was friendly, sort of flirty, and gave them all sorts of tips about things to do in the city. Sure enough, when he calls the bookstore now, the boy who answers is happy to field Robin’s question about a mixed club that plays new-wave music and starts with an R. “Revival,” he says without hesitation. “It’s on 3rd Street, in a building that used to be a bank. You can tell by the big columns out front.”
The location is on the far side of Center City, too far to walk, and too expensive a cab ride. He could take SEPTA, but at night it’s a scary few blocks between apartment and train stop, and he usually runs most of the distance, clutching his keys between his fingers like brass knuckles.
He opens the last beer in the fridge. Has he already drunk four?
There’s a noise in the hallway. Robin turns to see the door opening. In walks George.
Robin peers past him. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“That was quick.”
“Yeah.” George drops onto the couch and slumps. He eyes the beer in Robin’s
Without warning, everyone he’s ever had sex with is in the apartment with him now, crowding him, heavy breaths on the back of his neck, damp as drafty air. There’s one in particular: his name was Darren, a dancer with haunches like a thoroughbred and a dazzling white smile. He worked on a cruise ship, performing in some kind of Broadway revue, and he had docked in New York for half a week. Darren had spotted Robin at a bar in the West Village, Uncle Charlie’s, and had rescued him from a drunk in an ugly knit sweater whom he couldn’t shake. By the time Darren shipped out again, Robin had lost track of what day it was. He’d followed him back to the small hotel room where he’d been put up for the week, and since then had hardly seen the light of day. After the second day, they’d scrapped the condoms. Darren had assured him he didn’t have “it,” and Robin, not yet nineteen, didn’t know not to trust a stranger with a voice like music and the body of a satyr.
He wonders, not for the first time, did Peter ever see beyond the surface, did he care about me beyond his lust? Was Peter simply hot for him, while Robin was convinced they were falling in love?
The phone clangs, snapping him from the dream. The ringer is loud; there’s only one phone in the apartment and they need to be able to hear it from every room.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Robin.” It’s Peter.
“I was just thinking about you!” He tamps down his excitement, and adds, “On and off, all night.”
“I’m just saying hi. I was a little concerned.”
A little concerned is a start, something to work with. “Can I see you?” Robin asks.
“Um, I could swing by in the morning.”
“Not tonight?” Robin already knows this isn’t what Peter wants. He pushes anyway, “I just think, if we could talk—”
“Yeah, um, but my plans…I’m on my way to meet…” He cuts himself off.
“You caught me by surprise, and I didn’t get to ask everything I wanted to.”
“I’m meeting Diana and a bunch of her friends at this place. It’ll be crowded.”
“A bar?”
“A club.”
“Which one?”
“I forget the name. Something with an R.”
“Is it a gay club?”
“I think it’s mixed. New wave music. Diana wanted to go.” Silence. “So, yeah, just saying hi.”
No invitation is forthcoming. “Okay, then. Tomorrow. Come by around noon.”
After he hangs up, Robin is all agitation. Why bother calling if…? And then he gets an idea. On Peter’s last trip, he and Robin went to the gay bookstore, Giovanni’s Room, and spent an hour browsing. Peter bought him a gift, a copy of The Memoirs of Hadrian , about a gay Roman emperor, a book that Peter said helped him realize how ancient and storied the history of homosexuality was. The guy behind the counter was friendly, sort of flirty, and gave them all sorts of tips about things to do in the city. Sure enough, when he calls the bookstore now, the boy who answers is happy to field Robin’s question about a mixed club that plays new-wave music and starts with an R. “Revival,” he says without hesitation. “It’s on 3rd Street, in a building that used to be a bank. You can tell by the big columns out front.”
The location is on the far side of Center City, too far to walk, and too expensive a cab ride. He could take SEPTA, but at night it’s a scary few blocks between apartment and train stop, and he usually runs most of the distance, clutching his keys between his fingers like brass knuckles.
He opens the last beer in the fridge. Has he already drunk four?
There’s a noise in the hallway. Robin turns to see the door opening. In walks George.
Robin peers past him. “Are you alone?”
“Yeah.”
“That was quick.”
“Yeah.” George drops onto the couch and slumps. He eyes the beer in Robin’s
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