I Hate Everyone, Except You(46)

The casual nature of his relationship with Tim made Clayton anxious. Clayton preferred clearly defined classifications when it came to men he was romantically involved with because they helped manage all parties’ expectations, especially his own. For example, “dating” meant going on dates. Guys who were “going steady” were sexually monogamous. If you were “fuck buddies,” you had regular sex without dinner or emotional commitment. And “boyfriends” were two guys working toward a common goal, like eventually sharing an apartment or adopting a dog. (Where Clayton acquired these definitions, he did not know, yet he regarded them as absolutes. Such is the wisdom of a twenty-five-year-old.)

Clayton/Tim fit into none of these categories. They went on dates that led to sex, of course, but they never talked of a future past Friday or Saturday night, so it seemed to Clayton that they were “dating.” But recently their individual friend clusters had intertwined so that the two groups now attended the same parties, which suggested to Clayton a certain deepening of commitment. Tim had even let Clayton’s friend Fiona hold his penis once as he peed during a party at a stranger’s apartment on the Lower East Side. An intimate act if ever there was one! Granted, Clayton was perplexed as to why a straight woman would want to hold a gay man’s penis—let alone any penis—during urination. And why a gay man would agree to it. And how the hell the topic came up in the first place.

A girl from the office stopped by Clayton’s desk and sat on it, which he found odd. The typical work friend might lean on a colleague’s desk, he thought, or stand there unassisted, honoring the concept of personal space. But he didn’t even know her name, just her face, and that was because she sat along the route to the men’s room.

“Hi, I’m Isabel,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied. “I’m Clayton.”

“I know that, silly. You’re a host. Everyone who works here knows your name.” She had shoulder-length dark blond hair, which was neither sophisticated nor sassy, yet she somehow managed to project that she considered herself both. “So . . . I’m pretty new to town and I don’t really know anyone. Do you want to hang out tomorrow night?”

“Sure,” Clayton said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say and because he kind of felt sorry for her. New York can be the loneliest place on earth if you’re not careful. It’s surprisingly easy to be overlooked by 8 million people, he had discovered quickly, lest you remind them of your existence on a near-constant basis.

“Great,” she said, dropping a tightly folded piece of steno paper near his keyboard. She hopped down from the desk and strode away, as suddenly as she had arrived.

As Clayton unfolded the paper, which contained Isabel’s phone number as well as her address, he began to feel angry at the way he had been ambushed. That’s not how Saturday night plans were made! You didn’t make Saturday night plans until Saturday afternoon. That was the way it worked in New York. At about 3 p.m. on Saturday, you would call a few friends and set an agenda for the evening that could be amended or canceled at will depending on better offers that may or may not arise. But now he had plans, which interfered with his lack of plans, and made Clayton feel very uncool just as he had been beginning to feel sort of cool.

Once home, Clayton showered and groomed and changed into a fresh pair of khakis and the light-blue button-front linen shirt he had bought at Banana Republic for the occasion. Around seven Tim called and suggested they meet for dinner at a small restaurant near his apartment in Chelsea at eight. Clayton took two subways to get there and arrived looking more rumpled than he would have preferred. They had martinis and spoke about their jobs, their friends, and recent parties they thought were either lame or amazing. They also talked about spaetzle. Clayton, who had never heard of it, read it aloud from the menu as spahtz-el.

“It’s shpets-luh,” Tim said.

“Oh,” said Clayton. “Well, now I feel stupid. Should I have known that?”

“It’s like an Eastern European pasta,” Tim said. “You should order it. You know, expand your horizons a little.” He smiled and looked down at his menu.

Clayton didn’t know if Tim was mocking him or being sincere. Though Tim was a few years older, he seemed considerably more worldly. Clayton ordered the spaetzle, which was good, if a little bland. Little did he know at the time he wouldn’t eat it again for another fifteen years, not because he didn’t like it, but because the occasion rarely seemed to present itself. They split the check, and Tim asked Clayton if he’d like to come back to his apartment.

“Sure.”

They walked to Tim’s apartment, immediately undressed and began to have sex (the details of which will be left to the reader’s imagination). About seven minutes in, Tim stopped all movement and said rather matter-of-factly, “I’ve got something to tell you.”

Clayton froze. “OK,” he said. This, stopping sex once it had begun, was highly unusual. He wondered if Tim was about to ask him to go steady.

They sat next to each other on the bed and didn’t bother to cover themselves, even though the lights were on, because they were young. “You know how I took a business trip to London last week . . .” Tim began.

“Yes . . .” Clayton said. He had seen Tim the night before he left. Clayton had thought that was nice, making a point to see him for dinner and sex before leaving town.