I Hate Everyone, Except You(47)

“Well, while I was there, I had a threeway.”

Threeway, thought Clayton, that means two other people were involved. Were they both men? British men? Or other Americans on business trips? Were they a man and a woman? (Tim had let Fiona hold his penis!) Probably both men, he decided, but were they better-looking than himself? Because if they were better-looking—square-jawed, polo-playing Eton types—he would feel very insecure about his own looks—and naked body—right now. But if they were not as good-looking—malnourished, bald chain-smokers—he would be turned off by Tim because that would mean that Tim was the type of guy who had sex with ugly people, which would mean that Clayton was ugly because they had been having sex until just a minute ago!

Clayton decided that asking too many questions would not be playing it cool, so he said, “That’s cool.”

“You don’t care?” asked Tim.

“Why would I? We’re not going steady or anything.”

Tim cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “Do people say ‘going steady’ anymore?” he asked.

“You know what I mean. Being exclusive.”

Apparently relieved that his disclosure had been met with such nonchalance, Tim began to kiss Clayton on the neck. Clayton lay motionless, images of uncircumsized English wangs and crooked teeth flooding his brain. “I’m not in the mood anymore, so I’m gonna head home,” he said.

Clayton was hoping Tim would object to that notion, at least a bit. But he didn’t. “OK,” said Tim.

Clayton got up from the bed, picked up his clothes from the floor, and began to get dressed. His linen shirt was severely wrinkled and he didn’t need to look in a mirror to know that his hair was a mess. He hated so much that he looked disheveled precisely when he wanted to appear smooth. Tim got out of bed, removed a cigarette from its pack, and lit it. When Clayton had buttoned his last button, Tim, still naked and semierect, opened the door to the hallway.

“I’m really not sure why you decided to tell me that during sex,” Clayton said on his way out.

“I was just trying to be honest with you,” Tim said.

Clayton gave Tim a peck on the lips. “Well, you shouldn’t have,” he said and squeezed Tim’s penis, just slightly harder than might be comfortable.

*

The next morning Clayton awoke wondering whether Tim had gone out to a party, or, more likely, parties, after his exit, and if so, whether he and his friends shared a laugh over Clayton’s prudishness. He stormed out after I told him I had a threeway, he could imagine Tim saying. Oh, my God, what a girl, his friends would laugh, even Fiona if she were there. Clayton began to doubt whether he was cut out for the complexities of gay life in New York, a feeling exacerbated by the fact that he was still sharing a tiny one-bedroom apartment with his ex-boyfriend, Pete, whom he could hear making breakfast in the kitchen three feet away.

After their breakup, Pete had moved the queen-sized bed, which was his, into the living room, and Clayton moved the futon, the only piece of furniture he owned, into the bedroom. Ever since, a sepia-toned haze of disappointment filled the apartment. Their relationship had failed (disappointment in each other) but neither could afford to move out (disappointment in themselves).

Clayton had met Pete while attending grad school and waiting tables on weekends. Pete came to the restaurant occasionally with friends who were regulars. “Pete wants to ask you out on a date,” said Pete’s friend one night when he was sans Pete. “Then Pete should ask me out on a date,” Clayton answered. And the next night Pete stopped into the bar to have a drink.

“Your friend says you want to ask me out,” said Clayton while waiting for the bartender to mix the drinks for his four-top.

“Yeah, he’s been saying I should go out more.”

Pete was very handsome with sharp features and a toothy smile, and Clayton wondered why he was so bashful.

“If you asked me out, I’d say yes,” said Clayton.

“Do you want to go out with me?” asked Pete.

Clayton picked up his cocktail tray. “Not really.” Pete looked stricken. “I’m teasing. Of course I do. You’re adorable.”

Their relationship got serious quickly. When Clayton finished his course work, he applied for jobs locally but received no offers, and so he moved back home to Long Island with his parents and began to answer want ads in the New York Times, which eventually led to a job as an assistant editor at a small trade magazine reporting on the electronics industry. Pete said he was ready to move to New York, and the two found the apartment they now shared. The problem was that Clayton’s vision of Manhattan life involved a whirlwind of throbbing nightclubs, fancy restaurants, and designer clothes. Pete wanted to cook chicken and watch television, like they’d done back in grad school. But grad school is not having a real job. And it wasn’t long before Clayton cheated on Pete with a wealthy executive of a design firm. They remained civil after their breakup, however, friendly even. But they eventually lost touch.

Clayton went to work and sold some inline skates and protective gear. Saturdays were supposed to be busy ones in the home shopping world, but sales at the new channel were low. Nobody seemed to really care. “We’re finding our feet,” executives would say, and Clayton believed them. Around five that evening he reluctantly called Isabel and asked what she wanted to do. When she said she didn’t know, Clayton suggested they take a walk around Soho and find a bar. Isabel asked if Clayton would pick her up at her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. He found the request an imposition, but she probably didn’t realize he lived on the Upper East Side. Anyone who has lived in Manhattan for more than five minutes knows that asking someone to travel crosstown for your own convenience is akin to requesting a loan, or a kidney.