Object of Desire. William J. Mann

wondering why I had paused in our walk across the room.

      “Are you coming?”

      “Yes,” I managed to say and, with a soft exhalation, resumed my stroll across Thad Urquhart’s parlor.

      “Danny!” Our host had spotted us and was grabbing my hand with both of his. “Danny Fortunato! And to think I didn’t recognize you the other night.”

      I smiled. Why would he? Who recognized artists? But, then again, I had a name—a name that people were talking about in this town, a name that was supposed to be new and hip and happening, a name that Disney had thought good enough to hire, that Palm Springs Life had placed on its cover—and in Palm Springs, names meant something. Palm Springs needed people with names to prove it was more than just a weekend getaway for Angelenos or a nude resort town for flaming queens. And so the people with pull in Palm Springs put me on their local radio shows and the local cable access station, and started inviting me to their parties. In the city’s gay rag, my face showed up as a “local artist.” The gallery downtown reported people were making inquiries about my prints, even if no one had bought one yet.

      Still, I had a name, however meager, and people with names came to Thad Urquhart’s house.

      People with names—and their spouses.

      “This is my partner,” I said, gesturing to my side. “Frank Wilson.”

      Thad gave Frank a warm, pleasant smile, shook his hand briefly, then immediately returned his eyes to me.

      “Is it true,” he asked in a stagy, conspiratorial whisper, “that Bette Midler has commissioned a piece from you?”

      “I don’t reveal who’s commissioned my work,” I said, with a smile.

      His eyes danced. Of course, he took my reply as confirmation and giggled. Thad looked the same as he had the other night—short, maybe five-five, with immaculately combed white hair, so white and so even, it was obviously dyed and transplanted. His face was pudgy but smooth, laser blasted, I was sure, at regular intervals in the cosmetic surgeon’s chair. He sported a pin-striped, double-breasted charcoal gray blazer and a white shirt without a tie. His large pocket silk was gold, to match the lighting, no doubt. His small hand sported gold and amethyst rings on three fingers.

      But I liked him. There was something about Thad Urquhart that seemed comical, ironical, as if he knew all of this was merely a show, and for the night, he was the ringmaster—so why the hell not just have a good time?

      Thad was leaning into me, his arm around my shoulder. “Funny,” he said, “for a guy with such an Italian last name, you don’t look very Italian. You’re very fair.”

      “Only my father’s father was Italian,” I explained. “His mother was Irish, and so was my mother. A hundred percent.”

      “But you don’t look Irish, either.” Thad made a face as he studied my features. “Are you sure you weren’t left on your parents’ doorstep, in a basket?”

      We laughed. But the comment touched a nerve somehow.

      Thad took my arm and led me out onto the terrace. Frank followed half a step behind. “Let me get you boys something to drink,” our host said.

      Of course, it was sheer delight to be called boys at our ages, but in Palm Springs, even for Frank, it wasn’t really so far off the mark. Up ahead of us the crowd was mostly gray haired and over sixty, though among the sea of blazers, a handful of buff boys stood out in their tight white T-shirts. And, as always, there were a few stars from the old days—de rigueur for Palm Springs parties, especially gay Palm Springs parties. Not the really big stars, of course—they were mostly all gone now—but people with names who added a little gloss to the festivities, who cast a little glow of nostalgic recognition. In the last few weeks, I’d seen Anne Jeffreys and Howard Keel and Kaye Ballard. Tonight I noticed Ruta Lee in a red boa. And Wesley Eure, the former star of one of my favorite shows when I was a kid, Land of the Lost, as handsome at fifty as he’d been at twenty.

      “What would you like, Danny?” Thad asked me as we approached the bar.

      “Vodka martini,” I said, drawing my eyes away from the crowd. “Grey Goose if you have it.”

      Thad nodded. “Of course, we have it. With olives?”

      “No,” I said. “With a twist.”

      “And you?” he asked Frank.

      “Just a glass of pinot noir, please.”

      The three of us pressed up against the bar. The bartender turned to face us.

      Was I hoping he’d remember me? Was there some crazy notion in my head that our fleeting encounter the previous weekend at happy hour might have stayed in his brain? If I was, I was being silly. Schoolgirlish. Our interaction had lasted only a few seconds. I’d ordered, he had gotten my drink wrong, giving me olives instead of a twist, and that had been it. There’d been nothing memorable about the moment. Absolutely nothing.

      For him, anyway.

      I watched as he approached us. The soft hint of a smile was playing across his full lips. But he smiled because he was looking at our host, the man who had hired him, who no doubt was paying him a pretty penny to bartend this private party. He was not smiling at me. I was under no delusions that he might be.

      Thad gave him our order. The bartender listened attentively, nodding, then went swiftly about his work. I noticed the head of his eagle tattoo peeking out from below the neckline of his T-shirt. I had to force myself to look away.

      “Now, tell me,” Thad was saying, leaning against the bar and turning to face Frank and me, “where do you live? How long have you been out here in the desert?”

      “We live in Deepwell,” I replied. Thad raised his eyebrows and smiled. Deepwell might have been modest compared to the mansions in this part of town, but it was an architecturally rich neighborhood, and Thad seemed to approve. “I’ve been out here now about four years,” I continued, “while Frank’s been here for ten.”

      “Ten?” Thad looked wide eyed at my partner. “And we’ve never met before this?”

      “Well, we poor college professors don’t often get invited to swanky parties,” Frank said.

      I had to smile. Frank always called rich people and rich events “swanky.” It was a great word. He said his mother had always used swanky to describe the movie-star parts of Palm Springs when they’d go sightseeing through the town. “Over there is where Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner live,” Mrs. Wilson used to say, pointing out the house on Alejo. “They give the swankiest parties. I’ve read all about them in Photoplay.”

      “Well, it’s about time that changed,” Thad said, giving Frank a warm smile and a clap on the back. “I hope you and Danny visit us often.”

      I felt he was being genuine. I glanced up and imagined one of my prints hanging over his bar.

      The bartender had returned with our drinks. He placed them on the bar in front of us, and I noticed his hands, the thin line of fine dark hair that crept along the outer edges. I had an overwhelming desire to bend over and lick that line of hair. I actually felt my body moving into position to do so, and I had to stop myself. My heart was suddenly thumping in my chest. As I looked up from his hands, I came into contact with his eyes—those dark mirrors that suggested a kind of glassy madness. But already he was looking away, indifferent to me, if he had even seen me at all.

      For a moment, I couldn’t lift my drink. Frank and Thad went on talking, but I just stood there, unable to move or think. My palms were actually wet. What was it about this young man that so compelled me? Of course, I had always loved beauty, been partial to it, easily susceptible to its charms. I had worshipped Scott Wood. And as a teenager, I had clipped photographs of beautiful men from magazines and pasted them in a spiral scrapbook on which, in black Magic Marker, I’d written “Beautiful Men.” That scrapbook had been kept hidden in my drawer so my mother wouldn’t find it—even