a bloke named Kevin. Until then I'd fucked—I don't know, four or five girls, and had a good time. But when I fell for Kevin, I knew I was a pouf. And it felt so right I didn't give a damn."
"What happened with him?"
"Kev? Oh. Nothing much." James glanced shyly at Michael, as if already regretting what he'd said. "Once we got drunk and made out. Other than that, Kev's always been with someone else. Usually a big bloke with muscles on his muscles and a cock like—well, yours." James grinned, hand snaking up to cover his mouth.
"None of that." Michael pushed the other man's hand away from his face. "Bad habit."
"I look like a freak."
"You're still beautiful. Just injured." Michael drew in his breath. "I always thought of myself as heterosexual. Until I met you. You arouse me like no one else."
"How many people have you fucked?"
"Two," Michael lied. "Frannie and you."
"Well, then, I'd say the jury's out. The good news—it doesn't matter. If you adore being married to wifey, so be it. If you like fucking me on the side, so be it. It's all about personal truth, mate."
Michael thought about that phrase, "personal truth." It was a long time until the frowning, harried nurse call him back—almost an hour—but even by then, he had no idea what a "personal truth" was, much less if he had one.
***
The test results came back around noon. The Nautilus's bar—called the Seashore—opened at 1 p.m. Michael maneuvered James inside and ordered him a margarita. "Make it with Patron Silver," he told the bartender.
"You don't even drink. How do you know about Patron Silver?" James sounded bleak.
"I hear things." Specifically, Michael heard things from Germanotti, who knew all his wife's favorite cocktails. But to reveal the source of enlightenment would spoil the mystery.
James said nothing until Michael returned from the bar with a cola for himself and that Patron Silver margarita for James. James finished the drink, head bobbing to the dance beat, trying not to make eye contact with Michael. He fetched another from the bar and drank it. Half way through his third, he announced, "I am a whore. A dirty, diseased whore."
"Hush." Michael leaned over the table, trying to intimidate with his eyebrows and his shoulders, wondering if it were time to cut James off.
"No, really. I have the paperwork to prove it," James slurred, sipping the margarita through its pink straw. "I have HSV-2. Isn't that romantic? Sexy?"
"You're not the only person to have genital herpes. The incidence is at least one in six males in Britain. I checked."
"You'll have it next," James predicted, pulling the straw out of his drink and poking it at Michael. "The gift that goes on giving. I don't understand how I could have it and never know. I mean once— once —I got itchy for a day or so. Before I could get an appointment, I went back to normal. Figured I dodged a bullet and never thought about it again." James sank half the margarita in one gulp. "Seriously, Michael, if you stick around, you'll catch it from me. I'm a dirty, diseased whore. Bet you never thought about the consequences when you chatted me up in that park."
"I did," Michael said gently.
James stared at him.
"I knew what you did for a living. I knew I was about to have sex with a stranger. I would have had to be deaf, dumb and dead not to understand what I was risking. Thirty years of public service announcements," Michael said. "Not all of them fell on deaf ears."
James, who'd already cried once, looked ready to tear up again. Michael reached across the table and touched the other man's hand. "If I contract herpes, I'll deal with it. My point is, I knew the risks and I chose to go forward. Wouldn't even let you wear a condom while I filleted you."
James made a startled noise. Then, despite his red eyes and boozy melancholy, he flashed that grin. It wasn't gorgeous now. It was a parody. Yet inexplicably, Michael found he still liked it.
"First time you've ever joked around with
"What happened with him?"
"Kev? Oh. Nothing much." James glanced shyly at Michael, as if already regretting what he'd said. "Once we got drunk and made out. Other than that, Kev's always been with someone else. Usually a big bloke with muscles on his muscles and a cock like—well, yours." James grinned, hand snaking up to cover his mouth.
"None of that." Michael pushed the other man's hand away from his face. "Bad habit."
"I look like a freak."
"You're still beautiful. Just injured." Michael drew in his breath. "I always thought of myself as heterosexual. Until I met you. You arouse me like no one else."
"How many people have you fucked?"
"Two," Michael lied. "Frannie and you."
"Well, then, I'd say the jury's out. The good news—it doesn't matter. If you adore being married to wifey, so be it. If you like fucking me on the side, so be it. It's all about personal truth, mate."
Michael thought about that phrase, "personal truth." It was a long time until the frowning, harried nurse call him back—almost an hour—but even by then, he had no idea what a "personal truth" was, much less if he had one.
***
The test results came back around noon. The Nautilus's bar—called the Seashore—opened at 1 p.m. Michael maneuvered James inside and ordered him a margarita. "Make it with Patron Silver," he told the bartender.
"You don't even drink. How do you know about Patron Silver?" James sounded bleak.
"I hear things." Specifically, Michael heard things from Germanotti, who knew all his wife's favorite cocktails. But to reveal the source of enlightenment would spoil the mystery.
James said nothing until Michael returned from the bar with a cola for himself and that Patron Silver margarita for James. James finished the drink, head bobbing to the dance beat, trying not to make eye contact with Michael. He fetched another from the bar and drank it. Half way through his third, he announced, "I am a whore. A dirty, diseased whore."
"Hush." Michael leaned over the table, trying to intimidate with his eyebrows and his shoulders, wondering if it were time to cut James off.
"No, really. I have the paperwork to prove it," James slurred, sipping the margarita through its pink straw. "I have HSV-2. Isn't that romantic? Sexy?"
"You're not the only person to have genital herpes. The incidence is at least one in six males in Britain. I checked."
"You'll have it next," James predicted, pulling the straw out of his drink and poking it at Michael. "The gift that goes on giving. I don't understand how I could have it and never know. I mean once— once —I got itchy for a day or so. Before I could get an appointment, I went back to normal. Figured I dodged a bullet and never thought about it again." James sank half the margarita in one gulp. "Seriously, Michael, if you stick around, you'll catch it from me. I'm a dirty, diseased whore. Bet you never thought about the consequences when you chatted me up in that park."
"I did," Michael said gently.
James stared at him.
"I knew what you did for a living. I knew I was about to have sex with a stranger. I would have had to be deaf, dumb and dead not to understand what I was risking. Thirty years of public service announcements," Michael said. "Not all of them fell on deaf ears."
James, who'd already cried once, looked ready to tear up again. Michael reached across the table and touched the other man's hand. "If I contract herpes, I'll deal with it. My point is, I knew the risks and I chose to go forward. Wouldn't even let you wear a condom while I filleted you."
James made a startled noise. Then, despite his red eyes and boozy melancholy, he flashed that grin. It wasn't gorgeous now. It was a parody. Yet inexplicably, Michael found he still liked it.
"First time you've ever joked around with
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