Like a Love Story(72)

Then Reza asks, “Do you think the people who need to see this movie will see it? I hope it is not just a gay movie.”

“What does that even mean?” I burst out. “JUST a gay movie?”

Reza stumbles over his words. “I meant, I don’t know, that . . .”

“This is a gay film,” I say. “And I want things labeled as gay. Books and movies and all that. Don’t we deserve our own stories?”

I can feel Reza tense a little. He can’t handle this side of me. Stephen puts a palm on my shoulder.

“You could argue,” Jimmy says, intervening to restore peace, “that it is a story about friendship, about life and death. That those themes are universal.”

“Yeah,” I say. “About GAY friendship. About GAY life. And GAY death. Don’t you want black films to be called black films, Jimmy?”

“I do,” Jimmy says. “But what’s a black film, anyway? Is The Color Purple a black film when it was directed by a straight white man? I loved that shit and Oprah was robbed, but the whole film is viewed through the lens of a white person. Perspective matters.”

I think back to photographing Jimmy for my project, of posing him like Diana Ross as Billie Holiday, per his request. Of setting up the lighting to frame his face in an otherworldly glow and finding the perfect angle. Did I capture the true him? Could I? Then I remember what Stephen told me once. That photographs say more about the photographer than they do about the subject. And if that’s true, I hate that. Because I don’t just want to photograph myself.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Reza. “I’m just angry that the straightness is implicit in everything, that there are so few queer stories. I’m not angry at you.”

Reza nods. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I see what you’re saying.”

Stephen smiles. “Isn’t the world more interesting when not everyone thinks like us?” he asks, clearly directing his question to me.

“Said the ACT UP activist who storms the offices of people who disagree with him,” I snap back. What’s wrong with me? I just apologized to Reza, and now I’m picking a fight with Stephen.

“Art, there’s a difference between denying sick people access to life-saving drugs and expressing an opinion about how to define-queer film,” Stephen says tiredly. “Pick your battles.”

Jimmy asks Reza a question about Iranian cinema, and the two of them walk ahead of us, leaving me alone with Stephen. I feel like an idiot. “What are you and Judy watching tonight?” I ask, changing the subject.

It’s Sunday afternoon, and I know Judy will go to her uncle’s tonight, that they will continue a tradition I was once a part of.

“I don’t know,” Stephen says, uncomfortable. He doesn’t talk about Judy to me.

“Okay,” I say. “Well, tell her that I still miss her.”

“I have,” Stephen says. “She will come around, you know. I just don’t know when. And I hope it’s before . . .” He takes a breath. “Let’s talk about something else. How are you and Reza doing? Did my sex tutorial help?”

I shake my head. “He’s too scared to do anything but kiss. And even that scares him sometimes. He bit his lip and he wouldn’t kiss me until it healed. Which was, like, three days. I couldn’t kiss him for three days. It was like torture.”

“His paranoia is normal,” Stephen says. “A lot of guys are scared. And remember that he just came out. He hasn’t had all the time you’ve had to accept all this.”

“But isn’t he supposed to wanna rip my clothes off? Isn’t he supposed to, you know, find me irresistible?”

“Oh, Art,” Stephen says, smiling. “I’m sure he does find you irresistible.”

“If his fear lets him resist me, then obviously I’m resistible,” I grumble.

I look ahead at Reza walking with Jimmy, arm in arm. He’s supposed to be mine, and yet he won’t give himself to me. Not fully.

“Sometimes I wonder whether I would choose to be from your generation or mine,” Stephen says thoughtfully. “I’d be alive if I were your age.”

“Stephen, you’re alive,” I say forcefully. “You’re here walking with me.”

“You know what I mean,” he says. “But if I were your age, I would never have had all those years of freedom without fear. I can’t imagine falling in love with José and not being able to be intimate with him, to make our bodies one. I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything, not even for more years.”

“Thanks for rubbing it in,” I say ruefully.

“Sorry,” Stephen says with a shrug.

“You think Reza will ever be ready?” I ask.

“I do,” Stephen says. “But I don’t know when.”

To recap: He thinks Judy will forgive me, but he doesn’t know when. He thinks Reza will sleep with me, but he doesn’t know when. And despite telling Reza I’m more patient than I seem, I’m as impatient as a human being gets. I look at Stephen and say, “I’m sorry I got all pissy earlier. I’m not a good person like you, but . . .”

“Art,” he says, “you’re a great person.”

Reza and Jimmy have stopped and are waiting for us to catch up. When we do, Jimmy says he’s tired and needs a nap before Judy arrives. We say our goodbyes, and then it’s just me and Reza. We walk for a bit. Sunday nights are hard. The absence of Judy cuts deeper on Sunday nights. I want to put all this energy I have somewhere.