Dating a Muscle Boy —Part Two (Being Fully There)

I had a life before I committed suicide.

November 2003

As soon as I met Marcus outside the restaurant, the record player in my head got stuck on Almansa. Almansa is in the region of Castilla-La Mancha, in the province of Albacete Spain. The Moors called it “Al-Basit” (the plain). I was there on holiday many years ago with my ex-wife, Anne. She and I did quite a bit of traveling and many of the stories and experiences we shared are interesting (at least to me). However, tales of journeys with my ex are strictly forbidden on dates with men. Among gays, any man who has slept with a woman is viewed as suspiciously hetero, and any man who still speaks fondly of his ex-wife is considered probably unavailable. Unfortunately, my mind has been wandering back and forth to Almansa lately, like a bad tune you hear on morning radio and find yourself still humming late into the night. Almansa. Castilla-La Mancha. Spain. Now, in front of the restaurant, for reasons known to no one, I feel the uncontrollable need to tell Marcus about Almansa. My gay side gives me a firm mental kick in the butt, and demands that I tell no story, no tidbit, no life experience that involves Anne. Focus on Marcus, ask questions about Marcus, find out what makes a Marcus, and for God’s sake don’t tell the Almansa story.

Marcus and I walk single file into the restaurant; I lead the way. If this were a boy-girl date, I would have held the door for him, but as we are both men, neither holds the door for the other. From the outside, the restaurant looks like a Victorian home. Inside, it proudly displays all the emblems of a very chic hang out. Dark woods, brightly painted tables, heavily shellacked; overstuffed furniture in odd shapes with figure eight seats and backs that look like wind sales. A large staircase abuts too close to the front door. It leads to extra seating, a balcony and the bathrooms upstairs. (My record player is still on in my head: Almansa, Castilla-La Mancha, Spain.)

The women at the restaurant take immediate note of Marcus. The hostess, the waitress, the after work crowd of successful female attorneys and secretaries sharing conversation in a cozy corner. Strangely, the men seem to stare him down as well. The Mexican busboy, the bartender, the group of chatty queens sitting at a round table. Marcus cuts an elegant shape, especially when he’s wearing practically nothing other than a skin tight shirt to reveal his muscles. He’s greeted as if he were an old friend of the family. “Well, hello there, sir!” “Welcome to our restaurant, nice to see you here, sir!” Will you take me to the back and bed me, sir? No one takes note of muscle boy’s companion, the shorter man with unruly hair. It’s too tightly curled to be fashionable. Next to Marcus, I feel either grotesque or invisible. My moods vacillate.

The hostess seats us at a small table in the middle of the restaurant. I don’t want to sit here. I had hoped for something quiet, in a tucked away corner, out of view from the crowd. I don’t like being on display. But the girl who sits us doesn’t see a pair of potential lovers. She only sees a handsome stud and his dopy sidekick. She doesn’t realize how many expectations I have placed on this date. I don’t complaint. I play the part of the obedient, tightly-curled, silent companion. Perhaps she thinks I’m here to take nutritional lessons from Marcus. “Should be interesting to watch,” she figures. So we end up at the table with the least privacy. I say nothing.

We each unfold our napkins and fiddle with the silverware. I comment on Marcus’ sharp looking shirt. He tries to explain to me the difference between a slinky body shirt and a gym trainer top. One is designed to mold to your muscles, the other is designed to mold to your chest, or something like that. I don’t know which of the two type shirts he happens to be wearing this evening. They all look skin tight and delicious to me. I clear my throat, he fidgets with the butter knife. Like nuns in a cloister, neither one of us says anything. I’m acutely aware of every second that passes in silence. We don’t seem to have the same easy bantering that accentuated our on-line chat. Our first date seems forced. I’m feeling nervous.

After a while of excruciatingly holy silence, a waitress brings us menus. She’s a painted blonde, with large, Slavic red lips and unusually thick legs. “My name is Kasha,” she announces. Her voice gurgles with a middle-European accent. “I’ll be your server tonight.” Her eyes are transfixed on Marcus.

Marcus smiles. “What a beautiful name,” he says. “What country are you from?”

“You have to guess,” says the blonde, smiling and whoringly flirting with my muscle boy date. I don’t like being left out of the action, so I offer a timid guess. “Are you from Russia?” Kasha does not turn towards me. All I see is her square back and her plump round ass. While still facing Marcus, she tells me that “only very ignorant people believe that I am from Russia.” I turn red. “But you of course are not an ignorant man,” she adds. I don’t know if this last remark is intended for me or Mr. Muscle.

Marcus is studying Kasha’s face, like a child trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle. He looks at her from head to toe, inspects her lips, comments on the unusual paleness of her eyes. He even reaches out to touch her hair (only to feel the texture, he assures her). This is all becoming very uncomfortable. I feel foolish now to have feared telling stories of my ex-wife. This ex-priest turned muscle is practically having sex with a waitress in front of my eyes. Kasha even seems to be sighing in between short little breaths (either that or she has asthma). “So, tell us where is she from!” I finally ask him. It breaks the spell. They unlock eyes and he pronounces conclusively and assuredly that "Kasha is from Poland!”

“Very good!” chirps the blonde, recapturing her breath. He winks at her and gives her a warm “aren’t you a sweet Catholic girl” smile. I can finally see some of the Irish Catholic in him. If this were a bad movie, one of them would light a cigarette now. I’m thinking Kasha fixed the contest; she would have admitted to any nationality that muscle boy could guess. Tanzanian, Alaskan, Mayan Indian. Are you a Filipino dear Kasha? Sure Mr. Muscle, I’m a blonde Filipino from way back.

I’m tired of Kasha horning in on my date. There’s room for only one muscle-chaser at this table tonight, and I’m it. “A drink would be nice” I remind Kasha; after all, she did say she was our server for the night. Kasha, smart girl that she is, gets the hint. “What would you like to drink, sir?” she asks Marcus. He debates whether to have seltzer water or diet soda, and finally settles for a “wee-bitty cup” of coffee. To me, there’s nothing funny or sexy about a grown man using baby talk, but Kasha thinks the “wee-bitty cup” is endearing. Her firm butt and ample breast jiggle gently as she giggles repeating “wee-bitty cup.”

Kasha rushes off to place Marcus’ coffee order, but half way to the bar she realizes she has forgotten about me. She turns around like a mad dog, and barks from the other side of the room, “What are you drinking?” I use my hands to mimic a very tall glass, and fake a slur as I ask her to bring “the biggest glass of white wine you can find back there, pronto.” She doesn’t crack smile.

Marcus now focuses his bright but small brown eyes on me. My stomach tickles. His jaw line has a perfect Germanic cut, his nose is small but masculine, his face is hairless, which contrasts nicely with my permanent five o’clock shadow. We are stereotypical opposites in appearances, the WASP blond (albeit heavily painted to look yellow) and the dark Mediterranean. He winks at me, but I avoid it. I turn my face to read the menu. “Tell me something about your day,” he asks me.

I can’t give him a simple answer. It’s hard to explain what I do all day long at the office. I’m a lawyer. Sometimes it seems everyone hates us. I’ve been told more than once that the reason a shark won’t eat a lawyer is “out of professional courtesy.” So that’s my image. How can I expect an ex-priest (now gym trainer) to understand what I do? Rather than bore him with the details, I decide to give Marcus a broad brush summary of my “very successful” career path: Ivy League Schools, Wall Street Firms, a prominent North Carolina practice and now an in-house attorney. I paint a favorable picture. Sounds wonderful when recounted in such terms; but it was hell living it.

I don’t tell him the hellish part. I don’t tell, for example, that one time, in one of those typical 2 AM meetings when everyone has been working around the clock on a mega-bucks, testosterone-laden deal, I excused myself from the conference room and went to the bathroom to pee out about twelve cups of coffee. I had been drinking coffee all night to stay awake. After the much needed relief, I went back to the meeting as if nothing had happened. The partner I was working with went ballistic, “Good God Man, where the devil have you been! I need you to stay here and take notes!” I didn’t have the guts to tell the fucking partner that I was busy emptying my bladder and that if he had a problem with it he could kiss my privates, thank you very much! Instead, I apologized to the bastard, like a mouse to a lion, and assured him it would never happen again.

“I’ve worked on some really good transactions,” I tell Marcus. “I was lucky to get trained by some top notch lawyers. In many ways, they made me what I am today.” I listen to my words. I’m bored by what I’m saying. Marcus keeps smiling, nodding his head gently, as if he were interested. Anyone can tell he’s bored.

* * *

We’ve been chatting for close to an hour. Actually, Marcus has been doing most of the chatting. I’ve been listening like a cardboard box with ears and no mouth. Kasha brings out whatever it is we ordered (it was so long ago I’ve forgotten.) She and Marcus seem to have cool things down. I think she’s finally figured out Marcus is gay and that she was barking up the wrong tree. It’s just me and Marcus now, eating dinner, trying to make lively conversation. My mind is still playing that story: Almansa, Castilla-La Mancha, Spain. Marcus seeks to engage me by asking me about my life, my likes and dislikes, his views of the world. It feels like an interrogation. I’m not sure where the conversation is heading, and I can’t offer more than one word answers.

“So how many years have you been practicing law?” 20.

“Tell me, do you like living in the DC area?” No.

“I think that gay men have really improved this city by revitalizing the downtown and Dupont areas, don’t you think?” Yes.

He is trying desperately to get me talking, but I’m in that state I get into when I’m anxious; I clam up. I sound like a guilty man afraid of confessing his crimes. I can’t engage in conversations. I’m afraid that if I say anything it will sound idiotic, so I rather keep quiet than be thought the fool. Poor Marcus keeps trying anyway. “And you were married for a long time?” Yes. After a few more monosyllabic answers, Marcus gives up on the conversation. He redirects his focus on eating his dinner. He dissects his prime rib in careful strokes, like a butcher inspecting his meat; methodically, attentively, deliberately.

Despite myself, I decide to share a little something with Marcus. Among lawyers, I tell him, New York law firms have the reputation of being sweatshops. I have the dubious honor of having worked at one of the sweatiest sweat shops on Wall Street. As a young man fresh out of law school, I was the perfect prey for billing hungry partners. I was smart, obedient, willing to work long hours and not bitch. In other words, I was a good rule follower. Today I can’t remember what required that I spend so many hours at my desk, so many overnighters at the office, so many social engagements cancelled or forgotten because “I’m needed at the office.” Work, billable hours, document production. Eating at my desk, getting fat, losing muscle tone. Wishing I had more time for Anne, feeling lousy about myself. Killing my soul slowly.

I don’t know why I’m telling Marcus any of this. Marcus is yawning. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really tired tonight. Please go on, I’m listening.”

I don’t believe him. I go back to drinking. “Waitress, one more please!” I drink and ponder as Marcus continues chewing his meal, slowly but surely.

What I do best under stress is to tune out from my space and focus on the sounds around me. I’ve lost Marcus, I figure, so I turn to the restaurant crowd, and eavesdrop on the conversations going on at other tables:

“That bitch, who does she think she is telling me what to do. I’ll quit before I ever work for her again. . . .”

“How’s your pasta? I think this place is overrated. . ..”

“Do you think Kerry has a chance this year? Pass me the salt, sweetie….”

“What the hell is that muscle hottie doing here with that curly guy?”

The conversations don’t hold my interest for long. My mind is playing that record again. It’s stuck on that story. Almansa. La Mancha-Castilla. Spain.

* * *

Don’t tell that story. . . (I focus on Marcus chewing instead.)

Avoid that story. (I tap my fingers on the table instead.)

He does not want to hear about Almansa. No one cares about Castilla-La Mancha . (I start chewing on my lips, biting the inside of my cheeks.)

I can’t stand it anymore.

* * *

“I like to travel!” I blurt out. I’m a child who can’t keep a secret. “There is nothing that fascinates me more than traveling on roads that never end, lost in places strange and unpredictable.”

“What?” he says noticing the abrupt transition from New York sweatshops to a traveling journal. I persist. I’m going to tell him the Almansa story. “Five yeas ago” I tell him, “Anne and I decided to tour Spain by car and by foot . . . . ”

* * *

“The days were purposely unstructured. . .”. We would travel a few hours by car, then stop at any town or village, buy the local cheese, sample a new variety of olives, drink red wine, enjoy jamon cerrano, delight on rustic bread. The only goal at any destination was to see what new fascinations we could find in the local markets. In Almansa, a small town in the Castilla-La Mancha region, we hopped from shop to shop buying queso manchego and well made glazed pottery. We ate and walked. Streets without cars, houses all painted white. We plotted ways in which we could smuggle a wheel of queso manchego on the aircraft back home, and calculated how many glazed jars with funny looking rabbits or deer would fit into our suitcase.

Like all true tourists, we sought souvenirs that would later remind us of happy trails. Home was nothing like Almansa. Home was dark canyons amongst the skyscrapers in Manhattan. Home was my small office space downtown, and all nighters at work. Home was our cramped fifth floor walk up on East 89th Street. Home was having Anne say to me “you don’t listen to me anymore.”

Towards early afternoon in Almansa, we had meandered to what appeared to be the town center. A plaza with palm trees, a large crowd of adults waiting. Anne and I presumed that with such a large turnout, there must be a show at hand. We imagined everyone was waiting for a parade or perhaps a folkloric dance. Without knowing what to expect, we sat among the crowd, and ate bread and cheese. Like everyone else, we stared at a white building at the edge of the plaza. I assumed it was a church or a civic building. There was a bell tower next to it which gave it a sense of importance.

At three o’clock, the bells rang. The doors of the main building in the plaza swung open in silence. I hadn’t realized that this was a school. Children of all ages walked or ran out of the building, wearing uniforms that looked like white lab coats. First only two came out, hand in hand. Then a child by himself, followed by three, seven chatting, a multitude. The students mingled into the crowd as if they were dancers. They said goodbye to each other. Some continued chatting in close proximity, as if lovers, clasping hands as they walked away from the school or ran towards their parents. Anne and I were clearly the only non-parents in the adult crowd. We watched each child and each parent come together and leave. Within thirty minutes, the plaza was empty, except for Anne and me. We were mesmerized by the beauty and unexpected simplicity of this letting out of school.

Home was having Anne ask me “Why don’t we don’t we do fun things anymore? When was the last time we went to a museum?”

I liked Almansa, the school letting out, because there was no plan to it, no meaning to be assigned to it. We simply enjoyed being there as ordinary people elegantly performed an every day ritual.

Home was having Anne accuse me “ Where are you all the time? I don’t feel you are here with me.”

About five of the glazed jars that we bought in Almansa broke on the trip home to Manhattan. Over the years, more and more of the precious jars from Almansa chipped, broke or disappeared. Some where damaged when we left Manhattan and moved to North Carolina. We wrapped them carefully in newspaper and towels each time there was a move, but things are inevitably damaged in transition.

Home was arguments, questioning why we didn’t have sex anymore. Home was not knowing what to say to her because I loved her and yet could not love her. Home was not knowing what was happening to us.

Few of the jars survived the trip from North Carolina when we moved to Washington, D.C. In the end, when Anne and I divorced, we had only two Almansa jars left. We each kept one. She uses hers as a flower pot, at the edge of her garden. It is muddy, with most of the finish chipped off, but she has planted in it a beautiful sedum. I have the other one in my living room . . . “well polished, placed over my mantelpiece.”

* * *

I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been talking. I give myself another mental kick. Not Anne, I tell myself, stop talking about Anne. You are here with Marcus, talk about Marcus, engage Marcus. To my mind, Marcus doesn’t appear to have noticed anything. He’s still eating, slowly, methodically, dissecting each piece of meat into its smallest component before it enters his mouth. I have never seen a man eat so slowly. I, on the other hand, eat like a vacuum cleaner with teeth. I drink a little more wine.

Marcus puts down his silverware. “I like your story,” he tells me , slowly, as if he’s thinking of something. I don’t believe him. I don’t trust him. “It says a lot about you and Anne.” Change the conversation. Don’t let him tell you he likes your story. “Do you like your dinner” I ask him.

He looks at me with those lost brown eyes and that permanently fixed smile. He stretches out his hand to hold my hand, but as he does so he clumsily knocks over a glass of water. It spills towards me, drenching my pants.

The waitress comes running to the table. “Sir, are you wet?” she asks Marcus. She doesn’t take notice of my trousers, so wet that they cling to my legs. “I’m alright,” says muscle boy, “but my poor companion is as wet as a baptized newborn.” Kasha is lost. She’s wondering, “what companion?” Oh yes, the one with the curls. “Do you need a towel,” she asks me, begrudgingly.

“I’m fine,” I answer. Always the martyr. “The water didn’t even touch me.” My shoes squeak from dampness. Water drops are falling from my side of the table to my chair, to the floor. We all pretend not to notice. I drink a little more wine, and ask for the bill.

* * *

We’ve paid the bill, and I’m waiting for Kasha to bring me back some change. As we wait, Marcus is apologizing profusely, telling me he spilled the water by accident. “I wanted to hold you hand,” he says. I tell him not to worry about it, not to make a fuss. No harm done. “And besides, “ I tell him, “you didn’t even get me wet.” Lies.

At this point the restaurant has turned down the lights. “You are very handsome,” he says to me. I don’t believe him. I don’t trust him. But he gives me his hand. In open public, in the most visible table in the restaurant, he squeezes my hand, tight. I squeeze back, gently, as if our hands were fragile. Kasha comes back with my change and gives me that look that heterosexuals always give homosexuals, that look that says “it’s ok to be gay, but don’t’ do it in front of me.” I let go of his hand.

* * *

We are outside. It’s that awkward moment that awaits all first dates, the moment in which we must decide if the date continues or ends, if we’ll see each other again, whether we’ll kiss goodbye, passionately, sexually. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

I’m parked two blocks away. I make a mental note that next time (if there is a next time) I have to park farther away. It seems someone has eaten Marcus's tongue, so I take charge of the conversation. “The flirts in the restaurant were all over you,” I tell Marcus. “It was almost as if I were not even there. I suppose this will be something I have to get used to,” I conclude.

“If you want, the next time I’ll hunch over to look smaller and I’ll contort my face into a horrid shape. Do you really think those girls didn’t realize I’m gay?”

“Well,” I offer, “Perhaps they were attracted to your shirt.”

Marcus touches his body to feel what it is he’s wearing. “You know,” he says. “I didn’t even remember I have this on. It’s as if it were my second skin.”

Our walk is over, and we are standing in front of my car. “Do you want me to give you a ride home?” I ask.

* * *

Do you want to share our bodies, allow our most secret and protected parts open up between our lips, allow your organ so delicate and sensitive to enter my orifices, my mouth which awaits you, your tongue seeking me out, your eyes wide open and close as they say, yes, I give you my body and my whole self.

* * *

Marcus pats me on the back and gives me a big hug. There is no kissing, no passion.

“Good night, my friend” says Marcus. “I really did like your story. I would love to see you again.”

* * *

What did I hear?

I heard no kiss, I heard no plans, I heard no passion.

I only heard good night.

* * *

I open my car, sit behind the wheel, and look in my rear glass mirror. I can see Marcus as he walks back home. He walks slowly, like he’s thinking about something. Maybe Almansa, Castilla, La Mancha is on his mind. I don’t think so; I tell myself no. I look in the rear view mirror again. This time I see my eyes. I wander if Marcus knows that I have green eyes.