Men Who Love Men. William J. Mann

Luke adds, though he doesn’t look at me, keeping his eyes squarely on Jeff. “And in 1935, starring the amazing Miriam Hopkins.”

      “Miriam who?” I ask.

      “You wouldn’t understand,” Jeff tells me. “Miriam Hopkins is very big for true film fans, one of the forgotten greats.”

      “Well, in fact,” Luke says, reaching into his bag again, “look what else I have.” He pulls out a videotape in a battered cardboard slipcover. “I’ve got one of Miriam’s last appearances—on the TV show The Outer Limits.”

      Jeff takes the videotape and inspects it. “The Outer Limits! That was a great show. Sometimes even better than The Twilight Zone.”

      “I agree,” says Luke. “Do you know both Geraldine Brooks and Sally Kellerman appeared on it?”

      I laugh. “Are they favorites of true film fans, too?”

      Luke eyes me. “For true fans, Henry, the people on the screen can sometimes seem like your best friends.”

      “But why,” Jeff asks, lifting his eyebrows at Luke, “are you carrying these around in your backpack? You don’t want that lobby card to get damaged.”

      “I know,” the boy answers. “But I just don’t feel comfortable leaving it back in my hotel room. If the maid found it…”

      Jeff hands the precious relics back to Luke. “You’re staying at an inn?”

      Luke nods. “Until I can find a permanent place.”

      I notice the smile creep across Jeff’s face. “You’re planning to move here?”

      “Yes, so I can…” Luke’s voice trails off.

      “So you can what?” Jeff asks.

      “Oh, please,” I say to Luke, impatient with this little charade, “just tell him.”

      “So I can write.” The boy blushes. “Like I have any business saying that to you.”

      Jeff beams. No one on the entire planet is more susceptible to flattery than Jeff O’Brien. It’s impossible to lay it on too thick with him. He just laps it up like a pig eating slops.

      “A writer, huh?” Jeff smiles. “Well, Provincetown can be a wonderful muse…”

      “So I’ve heard.” Luke carefully returns Becky Sharp to his backpack. “And your novels are a big reason why I’m here.”

      “I’m flattered,” Jeff says.

      “No, really, I mean it.” Luke returns his eyes to Jeff with a passion that exceeds anything I saw yesterday while we were having sex. “Your work has had such an influence on me. Your words…they’ve changed my life.”

      That’s when I stand up, grip the sides of the table, and puke all over both of them. Diet Coke and bits of fried clams rain down on their heads.

      Okay, so I imagine that part. But for the moment, anyway, the fantasy allows my stomach to stop lurching.

      “That’s awfully sweet of you,” Jeff’s saying. There’s a moment of eye-holding silence that leaves me feeling utterly invisible. Finally Jeff asks, smiling warmly at Luke, “Would you like me to sign your books?”

      “Would you?”

      “Sure,” Jeff says.

      What a guy. So magnanimous.

      Luke produces a pen from his backpack. Is there anything he doesn’t keep in there? Jeff opens the first book to its title page, pausing to think before he writes. Then, suddenly, without warning, he reaches down and pulls his T-shirt up over his head, revealing his defined pecs and abs. “Damn,” he says, “it’s so hot out today.”

      “It is so not hot out today,” I say, unable to keep quiet.

      But I’m ignored. Luke is mesmerized as a shirtless Jeff O’Brien signs his books. What our esteemed author writes, I don’t know, and in truth, I don’t care to know. But Luke reads each inscription in turn, cooing appreciatively, and replacing each book in his backpack. When they’re done with their little playlet, they just sit there, two naked torsos grinning stupidly across the table at each other. The sexual energy between them is so strong it could power a small city.

      My mind goes back to a night some five, six years before.

      “But I thought he loved me,” the boy from Montreal was saying. What was his name again? Jean-Pierre? Jean-Michel? Something like that. There have been many boys from many different places, beautiful boys who fell in love with Jeff and were crushed to discover his affection for them barely lasted through the week. And most of those boys turned to Henry Weiner for counseling and consolation.

      Will it be the same with Luke? Once Jeff is done with him, will he come running back to me? Will I let him?

      But as I watch them, I feel the situation is a little different this time. Jeff, for all his smooth skin and still tight abs, is no longer the young buck that he was. He’s not out there in the scene in the way he used to be, partly because he doesn’t have the stamina to stay up all night the way he used to but also because he’s no longer quite the focus the way he was in years past. Back in the day, all eyes in the room would turn to look when Jeff O’Brien walked in. But now, as well preserved as he might be, Jeff has discovered the playing field can never be truly level for him again—not when he’s facing off against a new class of twentysomethings.

      Like Luke.

      And that’s the other reason this time is different. Luke is no wide eyed kid still green in the ways of gay life, like so many of Jeff’s previous boys have been. Jean-Michel—and Raphael and Eduardo and Anthony—were all refreshingly free of guile. But looking at Luke, I see very clearly that he’s been around the rodeo a couple of times. After all, he’d known to search me out and to sleep with me, all part of his nefarious plan to meet Jeff.

      And how well that had worked out, all within a day. I wonder if Luke had spotted Jeff on his way into town? Was that why he’d insisted we leave the pier? Had he know somehow we’d run into Jeff? Even if he hadn’t maneuvered their meeting, the kid had known exactly what to do once his prey showed up. Out came the flattery in generous helpings, topped by that well-timed appearance of Supergirl in her carefully wrapped plastic bag. Luke was good. No question about that. Shrewd. Unlike Jeff’s other boys, this time both sides had their own games to play.

      “You know what?” Jeff is asking, breaking the charged silence that pulses between him and Luke. “You ought to stop by my house when you have the time. I’ll show you my entire collection of movie posters.” He lowers his voice into a sexy whisper. “I’ve got one from The Birth of a Nation.”

      “No way!” Luke gushes. “From 1915?”

      Jeff nods. “Not quite near-mint, but pretty fine.”

      “When can I come by and see it?”

      “What are you doing right now?”

      “Nothing,” Luke says. Then, as if remembering there’s another human being seated next to him, he turns to me. “Except that Henry and I were—”

      “Go ahead,” I tell him. “Who am I to keep you from The Birth of a Nation?”

      “You’ll come too?” Luke asks.

      I make a face. “I’ve already seen Jeff’s movie posters.”

      “You sure you guys weren’t doing anything?” Jeff asks me, standing up, apparently forgetting about the lunch he’d been about to order for himself. Or maybe he’s just decided he’s hungry for something other than a grilled chicken sandwich. It seems he might prefer his chicken raw.

      “Not to worry,” I assure him. “Luke and I weren’t doing a thing. I’ve actually got to head into town. I’m meeting a friend.”

      “Well,