Chapter One
I go to the gym three times a week, on average. Nothing mysterious there. I’m used to seeing all sorts of people—young, old, and in-between; fit, fat, and in-between. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the young man who caught my eye that Wednesday morning, in the locker room. Beautiful young men are everywhere in New York City. And they come in every imaginable size, shape, and color. That’s part of why I love living here. And there is normally nothing too remarkable about tattoos. They are, after all, mostly everywhere these days.
But I was surprised by the scene before me that morning. Imagine an Audubon print with meticulous, branching shrubs crowned by lovely reddish flowers in trumpet-clusters. Add in happy birds—finchlike—with iridescent wings. Then take the image to a Japanese tattoo artist and ask him to apply it to a living canvas. “Breathtaking” is the only accurate way I can describe that tattoo. I truly stopped breathing for a bit. I simply looked. And I prayed that the canvas would remain still long enough for me to take it in, with maybe a slow turn so I could view the whole thing.
The owner of this masterpiece turned away from me and dropped his towel. The rear view was even better than the side. In fact, I’ve never seen such a perfect ass. He proceeded to slip on his shorts. I was disappointed, of course, to see him begin the process of covering-up. But I also noticed that he moved with ease—none of that jerky haste you see in so many young men these days, as if nakedness were unnatural. He didn’t try to change under his towel, for sure. Instead he simply dropped the towel and replaced it with shorts, as if every step from towel to nakedness to shorts felt perfectly natural to him.
The tattoo started on the left side of his belly, as far as I could tell. It proceeded around his rib cage and truly bloomed on his upper back. When he leaned forward to tie his shoes, one of the birds flirted with his shoulder blade as sweetly as I would have done. And then the shrub seemed to soar over his shoulder. The last leaves and blossoms draped themselves tenderly on his chest, ending just above his right nipple.
“Nice ink,” I said. That’s generally a good ice-breaker.
“Thanks,” he said, with a sort of half smile. So far, so good.
“Clement,” I said, as I offered him my hand. “You can call me Clem.”
“Dominick,” he replied, as he shook my hand. “You can call me Dom.”
“A pleasure,” I said. If this meeting was going anywhere, it would be up to me. I could tell that Dom had no intention of continuing the conversation. I had already played the tattoo card. I had to think fast. “I’m always here on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. But I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” I said. That was the truth. A prior sighting would be burned into my brain.
“I just joined,” he said.
Again, it was up to me. “So where did you work out before? I can tell you haven’t been neglecting yourself.” I was proud of my fast thinking. I had managed to tell this stranger he had a great body without sounding any alarms.
“At the Y,” he said. “It’s okay, but this place is nicer.” By that point we were both dressed and ready to grab our jackets and our gym bags and depart. Again, it was entirely up to me:
“How about a cup of coffee?” I asked. “And we could get a protein something at the snack bar. You probably know your exercise science better than I do.” Was it getting creepy? I couldn’t tell.
“I like to sit quietly and eat something after a workout. So, sure. I’ll go with you.” It seemed too good to be true, but Dom agreed to spend some time with me. We chose our snacks and beverages and headed for a table. At first I tried to direct the conversation, but then I realized that he did like to sit quietly. He wasn’t really antisocial. He simply had nothing to say to me. And that was fine. I embraced the silence.
I studied the beauty across the table from me—cautiously—and wondered about his ethnicity. He looked, well, ethnic. He could have been a light-skinned black man. He could have been Arab. He could have been Romani. He could have been Sicilian. There are rather fair men in Northern India. There are Hispanic men with his coloring. And Moroccans. He might have been one of the above. He might have been all of the above. Or none of the above. Not that it mattered. Dom simply was himself. And I realized that he would be exquisite even without his tattoo.
When we finished our snacks and it was time to part, I handed Dom my card. “I’m a designer,” I said. “You could look at my website if you want.” And then I had to say the obligatory see-you-next-time line. I tried to keep it light. I said something about running into each other again at the gym. And then we parted. So, did I float all the way home to the work that was waiting for me on my desk? Not exactly. But there was certainly a new bounce in my step.
I had dinner that night with my best friend, Roger. I told him about my morning. Roger tried to be indulgent, but he was not especially keen on the topic. He said, “Clem, really, you’re almost fifty. And you want to complicate your life with a twenty-something?”
“I’m forty-two, Roger. As you very well know. And so are you. I can’t speak for you, but I’ve never felt younger. Thank you for your concern, but it’s my life to complicate.”
“I’m not questioning whose life you’re living, Clem, I just can’t see why you want to waste time on Audubon Boy,” Roger said.
“His name is Dom, Roger. And I haven’t wasted a moment. I think he’s sweet. I think he’s troubled. I might be able to help him.”
“Jesus, Clem! Are you out of your mind? You’re going to mess with a troubled straight boy and come out of it unscathed? I don’t think so.”
“Who says he’s straight?” I asked.
“Well, isn’t he?”
“I suppose he is. Probably. But that doesn’t matter if he needs my help.”
“Oh, my God!” Roger said. “Clem, you’d better snap out of this. I’d hate to see you floating in the East River. Blue is not your color.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Roger. I haven’t done or said anything. Nor do I intend to. It’s up to Dom. If he needs my help, he’ll ask. Otherwise, no relationship beyond the locker room.” Did I believe I could stick to that scenario?
“Clem, you’re a nice-looking guy. I’d fuck you,” Roger said.
“And have, don’t forget,” I said.
“That’s beside the point. I’m trying to tell you you’re holding up pretty well. You could attract a quality guy your own age. I don’t understand what you’re up to. Ever since Eric left, you’ve been, I don’t know . . . .
“You do not have permission to discuss Eric,” I snapped.
“Well, excuse me!” he replied.
“No, there’s no excuse for cruelty,” I said. “How could you say that? You watched Eric rip my heart wide open. And now you’re complaining about my behavior since? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s how friends talk to each other.”
We sat quietly for a moment, and then Roger said, “Clem, you’re absolutely right. And I’m offering you a deep apology. It’s just that I’ve loved you for decades, and I want what’s best for you.”
“Thank you, Roger. I love you, too. And could we drop this conversation?”
We did drop the conversation about Dom. We finished dinner and ordered nightcaps. We laughed and drank and chattered about this and that, as old friends do. As we were parting, Roger grabbed me with uncharacteristic force. “Please be careful, Clem. I couldn’t bear to lose you,” he said in my ear.
“Thank you,” I said. Was I chastened as I walked home alone? No. But as I let myself into the apartment and put on a few lights, I did have some Eric flashbacks. How could I not? Our relationship had felt so rich—in that very apartment. Eric. Twelve fucking years together. I thought we were perfect in every way. And then one day he came home and announced he was leaving, that he had fallen in love with some kid he met at work. Some kid who made him feel young and vital in a way he hadn’t been feeling in recent years.
At first I felt only shock and disbelief. Impossible, it seemed. Eric and me? Destined for the Old Folks’ Home together, surely. And then the new reality. Anger set in rather quickly. I tried to be civilized. I didn’t want hatred to replace my tender love. But by morning I wanted to kill Eric. As I was making coffee and trying to find something simple to eat—something like yogurt that might tamp down the rising nausea in my gut—I somehow pulled the butter dish out of the fridge. It was a Mid-Century cut glass collectible that was a Christmas gift from Eric’s mother. The top and the bottom both smashed on the floor in many, many pieces. Like my heart, I thought.
I was barefoot, of course, even though I usually put on sandals to go to the kitchen. Not that morning. But I was careful. Very careful. I was unwilling to shed any blood over this breakup. I shed some tears, of course, and I cleaned up the mess. It was the betrayal, I think. Like everyone else, I’ve had my share of disappointments and heartaches. But twelve years! And I thought I knew everything anyone could know about his mate. I thought it was forever. I thought we were very nearly the same person. And then—suddenly—we weren’t.
Work sustained me in the weeks that followed. I work with architects, mostly, on new structures and renovations, too. I advise them on the best use of space from the standpoint of human comfort: the best way to lay out rooms and room dividers. I choose colors and textures and decorative elements like moldings and woods and marbles. Occasionally I source furniture, carpets, pictures, photographs, ceramic and glass, African art. For residential work I can find anything that’s needed, but I more often work with what the client already has. And our clients often have extraordinary things. I love my work, and I’m good at it.
Before Eric left, I’d have told you I was a very happy man. And then? I hadn’t been to the theater or the opera or even a movie in I-don’t-know-how-long. Mostly I worked and then sat around feeling sorry for myself. Roger’s friendship was a real blessing in those dark months. It was always a blessing, but especially then. He got me out of the apartment and interacting with people again. And I was meticulous about getting to the gym regularly. That experience was a real lifesaver. There’s nothing like a little extra oxygen to the brain for encouraging positive thoughts and maybe even the occasional feeling of gratitude.
Nearly the only other person I saw in those days was our friend Elizabeth. Liz is an expert on fabrics. She knows everything there is to know about textiles—how and where they’re made, how to clean them, their durability. We first worked together ages ago, and we’ve been close ever since. Liz became very attentive after the big breakup. And she attempted her share of matchmaking. “Thank you, Liz, but I can find my own men,” I said to her at dinner one night.
“Apparently not,” she replied.
“Nevertheless, could I have your promise that you’ll let me sort this out on my own?” I asked.
“No, but I’ll try to be discreet,” she said.
“I don’t think discretion becomes you, Liz, but give it a try,” I said.
“If I didn’t love you, Clem . . . .”
“Ditto,” I said.
Roger and Liz have been lifelines for years. And when I found myself in a perfect storm, those lifelines held. I don’t know what I’d have done without them. Fortunately, I didn’t have to. But I did have to build a new life. Could I do it? Could Dom maybe be a part of it? I had no fucking idea.