Men Who Love Men. William J. Mann

      

MEN WHO LOVE MEN

      Books by William J. Mann

      Novels

      THE MEN FROM THE BOYS

      THE BIOGRAPH GIRL

      WHERE THE BOYS ARE

      ALL AMERICAN BOY

      MEN WHO LOVE MEN

      Nonfiction

      WISECRACKER: The Life and Times of William Haines,

       Hollywood’s First Openly Gay Star

      BEHIND THE SCREEN: How Gays and Lesbians Shaped

       Hollywood 1910–1969

      EDGE OF MIDNIGHT: The Life of John Schlesinger

      KATE: The Woman Who Was Hepburn

      GAY PRIDE: A Celebration of All Things Gay & Lesbian

      MEN WHO LOVE MEN

      WILLIAM J. MANN

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      As ever, for Tim

      Contents

      1 TEA DANCE

      2 ABOVE THE NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE

      3 ON THE PIER

      4 MY ROOM

      5 THE BACKYARD OF NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE

      6 MY BED

      7 COMMERCIAL STREET

      8 HERRING COVE BEACH

      9 MY BED

      10 FRONT DESK, NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE

      11 TEA DANCE

      12 NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE

      13 AN APARTMENT IN THE WEST END

      14 COMMERCIAL STREET

      15 AN APARTMENT IN THE WEST END

      16 THE BREAKWATER

      17 NIRVANA GUESTHOUSE

      18 DREAMLAND, AGAIN

      19 BACK BAY, BOSTON

      20 COMMERCIAL STREET

      21 ON THE PIER

      22 HERRING COVE BEACH

      23 MARTIN’S PLACE

      1

      TEA DANCE

      Eye candy.

      That’s what these boys are. If my eyes were diabetic they’d be going into insulin shock right now. Look at that one. Tall, dark, copper-skinned, pecs flat and square on his chest. Or that one, with the buzzed head and the lightning bolt inked across his big round shoulders. Or that one over there, with the milk chocolate skin and the eight-pack chiseled into his abdomen. Hell, anybody can have a six-pack these days. Now you’ve got to have eight.

      Eye candy. That’s exactly what these boys are. I can imagine popping any one of them into my mouth, rolling them around on my tongue like saltwater taffy. Or hazelnut cream. Nothing nutritious about these boys, nothing at all, nothing that will do any lasting good for the heart or the soul. But how delicious any one of them would be at this moment, and how sweet they’d taste on the way down.

      Once, I was eye candy myself. Once upon a time, I knew what it was like to be looked at. To be wanted. To be lusted after, pursued, fantasized over—the way I’m fantasizing about these boys now. Once, I was one of the beautiful boys, one of the A-list. Those days seem like a hazy dream to me now, but they were real. They happened. Right here at this very spot, too. And not really so long ago.

      “Henry, that boy over there is looking at you.”

      Reluctantly, I move my eyes away from the milk chocolate abdominals on the man across the deck and focus on my friend Ann Marie, all big blond hair and mascara. She’s returned from the bar with martinis for both of us. I take one, bring it to my lips, and taste the alcohol before I look at her again and ask which boy she means.

      “That one, over there.” Ann Marie gestures with her head, trying not to be obvious. “In the green tank top.”

      I see which one she means. He’s not looking at me now, if he ever was. He’s leaning against the railing, oblivious to me and anyone else.

      Ann Marie draws in close. “I know you tend to go for more muscley types, Henry, but he’s really cute.”

      Unsaid is that the muscley types don’t go for me. Not anymore. And neither is this kid, despite Ann Marie’s claims. I look back at him, framed by the startling backdrop of blue harbor, white sky, and scattered sailboats. He is exquisite. Blond hair hanging over his eyes like a schoolboy. Long lashes, perky nose, pouting lips. Lean, tight, with arms that are sinewy rather than pumped, the blessing of youthful muscle that needs no enhancement from a gym.

      “He’s cute, isn’t he?” Ann Marie asks.

      I simply close my eyes. “I’m on eye candy overload.”

      Ann Marie laughs as she takes a sip of her drink. “If he really were a piece of candy, what would he be?”

      “A lollipop.” I open my eyes and take a sip of my drink as I look around the deck. I’m feeling arch, a little brittle, a sensation the alcohol only intensifies. “Ah,” I say, “how quickly changes the light.”

      Ann Marie grins. “Are you going poetic on me, Henry?”

      “Summer’s almost over,” I say, doing my best to sound like Noel Coward. Not that I ever heard Noel Coward speak, but it’s what I imagine he must have sounded like. Wry and world weary. “Look around you,” I continue. “Once, this deck was filled with light. Now, the earth has turned. Winter isn’t far ahead.”

      “You’ve been hanging around my brother too long,” Ann Marie says. “You’re starting to sound like him in one of his melodramatic-writer moments.”

      “Is there even time left to dance?” I ask, airily.

      She looks at her watch. “I think so. Tea goes to seven, and it’s only six-twenty.” She’s taking me literally, as Ann Marie often does. “But the dance floor is pretty crowded.”

      “It’s always been crowded,” I tell her. “It was just easier once to make room.”

      “Oh, Henry.”

      “That’s a candy, too. Now, see that one over there?” I indicate a strapping blond number, shirtless, of course, smooth and shiny. “He’s a Three Musketeers. Light. Fluffy. Easy to swallow. Done in a minute.” I nod over at a thicker, meaner bald guy with an eagle tat blazing across his back. “Now he’s a Snickers. A little harder to chew, but still, in the end, if you’re not careful, he will melt all over you.” I cast my eyes toward a short, blue-eyed muscle boy with dark hair and an intelligent face. “Beware that one. He’s a Butterfinger. You’ll never get him out of your mouth.”

      “He looks like Jeff.”

      I shrug. “You think?”

      “And that one over there looks like Lloyd.”

      I follow her nod. Indeed, a handsome, green-eyed, goateed buzz cut talks intently with a group of women, a soft downy fuzz covering a perfect V-shaped torso. “Ah yes,” I say. “A Hershey’s Kiss. The most addictive candy of all.”

      “You’re making me hungry.”

      I look at her over the rim of my martini. “I’ve been hungry for a year and a half.”

      Well, actually only a year and four months and a couple of weeks. Not that I’m counting. Not that I’m thinking about Joey,