November

"What are you doing on Sunday?" George asked on Friday while we were finishing our run.

"Nothing, I don't have any plans," I said panting for air.

"You do now. I'm having a barbeque, and I have some people I want you to meet."

"What time?" I bent at the waist and put my hands on my knees. I did this to keep my knees from shaking with excitement and with any luck; it simply looked like I needed to catch my breath.

"How about two?"

"Great!" Now I did sound excited.

I felt like I was going on a first date. I changed my clothes six or seven times. I settled on khaki cargo shorts, a blue v-neck shirt and white converse slip ons. I looked in the mirror.

"Not bad for an old guy," I told my reflection.

"What do you guys think?" I asked the dogs. They answered my question by wagging their tails.

"I'll take that as a Yes."

I looked at the clock, and it was already after two o'clock. I took one more look in the mirror and thought that maybe I should have had Scott give me a quick trim on Saturday. Then I realized that would have been silly because he never would have had the time. He would have had his hands full with all those "Tits on a Stick" he loves so much. I liked the way he cut my hair, but the thought of a straight hairdresser just did not seem right to me. I walked to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of wine that I had purchased just for George's barbeque, said good-bye to the boys, and went out the front door.

The last time I was preparing for a date I had clothes all over the bedroom floor because I did not know what to wear. I was going to meet Ed for our first official date. The night that I met Ed, both of us had too much to drink and ended up on a sleeper sofa at Herb's house, an old friend from high school. The sofa had belonged to my mother, and Herb took it so that I could have a place to crash when I was in the city. I lived across the bridge in Alexandria and the Virginia police were not too friendly to anyone caught drinking and driving. When Ed found out that Herb and his friend Denis were right around the corner with no door between us, he became so embarrassed and angry that I thought that he would never speak to me again. He gave me another chance.

I looked in the mirror and said to my reflection, "I guess you are ready." I was twenty-six years old and had not yet started to go grey. In fact, I still had blonde hair. It was not as bright as when I was a child. Suzanne, a stylist at the salon and a good friend, decided that I needed some enhancement, so she placed some foil hi-lights in my hair.

"Cool," was all she needed to say.

With my bright blue over-dyed jeans and tight yellow t-shirt, I agreed. I do not need to say that I probably had on jazz shoes too, because it was the eighties. I did look cool, if I did say so myself. I drove into the city and found the perfect place to park. Then I walked the three and half blocks to the restaurant. Le Petit Café, a French restaurant, was in a part of town known as Adams - Morgan. The area got its name from combining two diverse schools; the first being an all black school called Thomas P. Morgan Elementary School and the second, an all white school named after the second president, John Quincy Adams. Now the neighborhood is home to many different ethnic cultures, especially Latin and Haitian, and has a hell of a block party at the end of the summer. We jokingly referred to it as, “Madam’s Organ.”

The restaurant was small and since it was Saturday night, it was cramped and loud. I walked in the door and instantly regretted what I had chosen to wear for the evening because everyone had stopped what he or she were doing and turned around to look at me. I think the music may have stopped. I tried to spot Ed in the crowd

"Can I help you?” The man at a podium hissed. He was about my age. He wore his thinning, dyed black hair slicked back and flipped up at the collar. He had large dark eyes and a very wide mouth with full lips and too many teeth that gave him the look of a piranha.

"I'm looking for someone," I announced.

"Aren't we all," he sniffed.

Ed stood up at the bar and waved. At six feet four inches tall, he was hard to miss. He had a head full of curly dark hair and a thick moustache. The design on his sweater matched my jeans perfectly as if we had planned it. His black jeans hung off his slim hips. When I finally reached him at the bar, he grabbed me and kissed me full on the mouth.

"Did you have any trouble parking?" he asked.

"Not really. I'm just down the street," I shrugged.

"What are you drinking?"

"Ah, whatever you are, I guess."

"Van," Ed boomed. "Get my friend here an Absolut sea breeze."

He gave me the barstool that he was sitting on. Then coming up behind me; he put his big hands on my shoulders. He introduced me to all the people around us. Ed had been sitting there for awhile and had become quite chummy with the regulars at the bar. The bartender was a good friend of his and even though it was not happy hour, Van was giving Ed two or three drinks for the price of one. Everyone had heard all about me because Ed could not stop talking about me. They wanted to know where I worked and what I thought of their haircut. When they found out that, I was also a massage therapist, they showed or told me all their aches and sore muscles. I was relieved, in some weird way, when the person with too many teeth showed up and whispered something in Ed's ear. Eddie grabbed and turned him around to face me.

"Chick, I want you to meet my friend Billy," Ed said to me. "Now Billy Dee, you be nice I just met Chick last Saturday night."

A big broad smile grew slowly across Billy's face. It made him look like the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. His icy smile matched the coldness of his handshake.

"Oh, so you're the one from Saturday night," Billy said, his teeth gleaming in the bar light.

"What do you mean?" I could feel the blood rushing to my face.

"Oh, nothing," he oozed. Then he turned to Ed and whispered, loud enough for me to hear, "I thought you weren't going to see him again."

"That is not what I said," Ed whispered out loud between clenched teeth, his face showing no emotion. "I told you to be nice. Now do you have a table for us or not?" The piranha turned on his heel, the large menus pressed up against him like a shield. “Right this way,” he hissed.

Billy sat us in his section which was up in the front of the restaurant by these huge picture windows. The table was small and our knees pressed against each other. We ordered our meal and let Billy choose the wine. I could not tell you what we ate or how the wine tasted because we were more interested in each other than the food and drink. Ed told me he grew up on Miami Beach.

"Have you ever been to Miami?" he asked.

"I passed through Miami once on my way to Key West," I replied.

"What did you think?"

"I loved it, but my friend Alice told me to stay away from the Cubans there."

"Oh, yeah," he said with a giant smile spread across his face. Then he leaned in real close and looked me in the eye. "You may have avoided them in Key West but not here in D.C." he laughed.

"I'm so sorry,” I gasped. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded," I said, the blood rushing to my face. “It was the time of the Mariel Boat Lift and there were a lot of seedy people lurking about.” I was so embarrassed when I realized what I had just babbled. “I should just keep my mouth shut and take my foot out, right?”

He put his hand on mine to quiet me.

"That didn't bother me. In fact, I thought it was kind of cute."

I knew at that moment I had fallen in love with the man across the table from me. He was charming and attentive. I could picture us spending the rest of our lives together but for tonight I could see the two of us tangled in the bed sheets. I smiled.

"Now why are you smiling ?" he asked.

"Now I really am embarrassed," I mumbled.

"What?”

“You will think I’m horrible,” I blushed.

“I have to know. Why do you have that devilish smile?”

"I was thinking how good your sweater and my pants would look thrown over the back of a chair."

Walking up the driveway, I noticed a faded bumper sticker for George W Bush on the back of a minivan. I thought to myself that this is going to be a very interesting party. I could hear Latin music playing and children laughing. I hesitated slightly then knocked on the door. In a short while, a tall, beautiful woman with dark eyes and wild curly hair opened the door.

"I'm... ah... Chick," I stuttered.

"So you are the Chick that I've been hearing about." She held out her hand and said, "I'm George's wife Isabelle. Everyone calls me Bella."

I was beginning to feel like the lyrics to the song, “Ironic,” by Alanis Morrissette, "You meet the man of your dreams and then his beautiful wife." I must have just stood there with my mouth wide open when Bella added, "Why don't you come in?"

George came to the door just in time.

"You can always count on the gringos to be early," he laughed, even though it was almost three o'clock. "I'm glad you came early. I see you’ve met Bella."

"Sure did. Just now. You are very beautiful," I said.

"Well, I can see that you and I are going to be good friends," she cooed, taking my arm and leading me into the house.

I handed Bella the wine.

"Oh, it's cold. Do you want me to open it for you?" she asked.

"No. Why don't you save it for a special occasion," I replied. The special occasion I thought was supposed to be for George and me.

"Thanks, that's so sweet." She kissed me on the cheek.

The day was magnificent. The hot sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Their backyard was wide but short, and the patio ran the entire length of the pool. The house on one side and large square pillars on the other supported a slatted arbor. Between each pillar were hanging baskets filled with different types of flowering plants. Even though it was Veteran's Day weekend, the long, rectangular pool had three kids in the shallow end splashing around. I recognized the blonde girl Stella. She and her parents, Yves and Tina, lived across the street from me. They were from Switzerland. Yves worked for a software company, and Tina was an artist. I saw them both sitting at a table under a mango tree that was months away from being in full bloom. I waved and they waved back. Tina was wearing a bikini top and a brightly colored sarong tied at her waist. She had on a large straw hat and big white sunglasses. That was when I noticed that everyone was wearing some kind of bathing suit. George was wearing black trunks with a white stripe down the side. His Hawaiian print shirt was completely unbuttoned, showing off his hairless chest.

"I hope you don't mind getting your clothes wet," George said as though reading my mind, "because everybody's going into the pool." Then he handed me a beer.

"A few more of these, and you won't get me out," I laughed.

"Good," George agreed and we clinked bottles.

"You have a beautiful yard," I observed.

"Thank you, but I can't take the credit. Bella does all the work around here."

I looked over at the kids playing in the pool and said, "I know Stella, but who are the two boys?"

"They are my boys," he said proudly. "Juan is the oldest. He'll be seven at the end of June, and the one getting ready to cannonball is Aaron." With that, Aaron jumped into the pool and for such a little boy, he displaced a lot of water.

"Aaron, like in Hank Aaron?" I asked.

"Yeah, how did you know? You like baseball?" George asked.

"My father was a ballplayer long before I was born and we watched it every Saturday on TV during season. In fact, he took me to the last Senators game at RFK stadium when I was a teenager. They were handing out plastic batting caps that day too. I have Marlins’ season tickets. Would you and your boys like to come with me to a game or two?"

"That would be great," he said. Then we touched our bottles together again to seal the deal.

C.P.T. stands for Cuban People Time. I was told to be at the house at two but most guests did not even begin to arrive until three thirty or four o’clock. The music had been turned up a little louder and the guests became more animated. It felt great to be around so many lively people and their families again. George introduced me to everyone as his new running amigo. I was having a hard time trying to understand their broken English, so I just smiled a lot and nodded my head.

After a few beers, I did find myself in the pool. With my wallet and keys safely tucked into my shoe, I dived into the deep end. I had forgotten how much fun kids were in the pool. I was the youngest in my family, and I grew up feeling that my nieces and nephews were more like my little sisters and brothers. They now have children of their own. Juan and Aaron were like little carbon copies of George, from the color of their tan skin to their close-cropped haircut. Like most boys, they loved to be thrown in the air to splash back into the water. I thought to myself that if I was going to be hanging out with these youngsters then I needed to stay in shape because they were making me tired. The boys finally calmed down and let me relax on an inflatable raft as they hung on to my arms. We were interrupted by George jumping into the pool, cannonball style, right by our heads. Then the boys and I attacked him, pushing his head under the water, laughing.

"You know my boys usually don't take to people as fast as they have to you," George said later. He was sitting on the pool edge with his feet in the water. I was in the pool with my head on my arms leaning on the pool deck.

"I do have a way with kids," I sighed.

"Didn't you want any?" he asked.

"I did but it wasn't in the stars for me."

"Were you ever married?" The question that had been asked a thousand times. “I see you wear a ring.”

"I was with someone for a long time," I said looking down at my ring. I felt that pang of emptiness in the pit of my stomach. It was time to come clean. I had enough to drink and George seemed sincere with his questions, "He died."

"AIDS?"

"No, not AIDS.” I hated people asking me that question, but George seemed nonjudgmental. “Something much more typical; congestive heart failure. Looks like when he was a kid he had some illness like scarlet fever that weakened his heart. By the time he had it checked out, it was too late."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah me too. We were supposed to grow old together..." I looked at George. "Does this bother you?

"What?"

"That I'm gay."

"Hell no," he didn‘t hesitate. "In fact, half of the Dade County Fire Department is gay."

Even though it was a holiday, Monday morning came very early. The boys were still sleeping on their beds when I came out into the den.

"Come on lazy bones; time to get up and go outside," I ordered.

Yawning and with squinting eyes, they reluctantly went out the back door. I smelled the coffee and went into the kitchen.

This day was going to be my first day back to the gym. Greg had reminded me how wonderful the facility was at the spa, and I was going to check it out. The only time I had been through the gym was on my initial orientation and I remembered it being not too big but clean. I had my uniform ready and I even found my old gym bag. I replaced the toiletries because some were over two years old. It was still black outside when I was putting my gear in the back of my car. The sun would not be out for at least another hour. I heard someone jogging up the street.

"Where are you going so early in the morning?" it was George.

"I could ask you the same question," I shot back. "I'm heading over to the spa and work out at the gym there."

"That's cool. I'm going to Dale's new gym up next to the grocery store."

"When did somebody open a place there?" I asked.

"A couple of weeks ago. Hey, you want to come with me?"

"He's open at this hour?"

George showed me a key that was hanging from a chain and he started swinging it around his finger. “No," he smirked, "but I sleep with the new aerobics instructor and she gave me the key.”

"Ok, let me get a towel," I said.

"No need because Dale has thought of everything."

I slammed the back door of my car and off we went.

On the way, George told me that Dale, who owned the gym, had worked with Isabelle at another place. When Dale told Bella that he was going to open his own place, he asked her if she wanted to supervise the aerobics department and she said “Yes“. When we arrived through the parking lot, the building was dark. George put the key in the lock and opened the door. He then turned on the lights and turned off the alarm.

"Ready," he said, "let me take you on a quick tour."

The first room was mirrored on all four walls.

"This is the aerobics slash spinning slash yoga room," George said with his arms outstretched.

Eight spinning bikes were lined along the back wall as well as some step equipment and a small stereo with speakers in the room. It seemed eerie not to hear music playing plus the air conditioning was not on, and the room suddenly felt very stuffy.

As if reading my mind George said, "God, it's hot in here. Let me turn on the AC.

He walked through a doorway at the other end of the room, flipped the switch, and the next room was filled with light. I heard the air conditioner come to life and figured that George had found the thermostat. I looked in the weight room. It was small, but the equipment was sufficient.

"Hey, Chick, come over here," George motioned. "Check this out."

He was standing in the locker room. I walked in and was pleasantly surprised because for being such a small place, it was decorated handsomely. The floors were Italian tile, and the wooden lockers looked like pecan. At the end of the room were two tiled stall showers. They had large copper rain showers that poured down from the ceiling. In each shower were dispensers of shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. I made a note to myself that if I were going to be a regular at Dale's gym, I was going to have to upgrade the products.

"You're right. He does think of everything," I observed.

"He even has towels and stuff to shave with. I think you would like him," George added as he threw me a clean white towel.

There was something strange about being alone in an empty gym with another man. It felt like one of those old seventies porno movies where the guys workout for two minutes and then get it on for the rest of the movie. I thought to myself that this was no time to be turned on even as I felt the erection rise in my shorts, and I placed the towel in front of me. I know that George had turned the air on, but why did it suddenly feel so hot in the room?

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah... How about some music?"

Locking up after working out George asked, "Well, what did you think. You like it here?"

"Yeah, sure," I commented. "Is the owner okay with us being here this early?"

"Sure. Dale is a great guy. You'd like him."

"You said that before."

"I did? Well, I think you guys would have a lot in common."

Thanksgiving is the official beginning of the winter season. This is the time that snowbirds flock down from the cold North and descend on sunny, South Florida. There was a time that the season began earlier, like the end of October or around the Jewish High Holy Days of Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah. Blame it on global warming or that the state of Florida will tax you for the year if you live in the state for at least six months.

The White Party at Villa Vizcaya is perhaps the most elegant of all charity functions; in fact, it is called the crown jewel of AIDS fundraisers. The Sunday after Thanksgiving the mansion and gardens of farm equipment pioneer John Deering are transformed into a sparkling cavalcade of small, twinkling lights and beautiful people dressed entirely in white. One would almost feel as if they had walked into a chapter of The Great Gatsby if it were not for the pounding techno beat radiating from the dance floor. It is truly a spectacle to behold. The week preceding, the affair is filled with lots of parties and festivities. Hotels are filled to the brim with wealthy gay patrons and their guests.

The Spa, where I work, was not going to be out done, and a grand opening party was scheduled for the Friday after Thanksgiving. The owners spared no expense in decorating the building, from the expansive floral arrangements in the lobby to the smallest details in the condominiums. People paid in excess of a million dollars to own their private space in a world-renowned spa and resort. Each room is furnished with state of the art television screens that can be used, with the help of a keyboard, like a computer. Guests can make reservations for one of the three restaurants or to book an appointment for the spa or have a service enjoyed in the privacy of their spacious apartment.

Ric stood five feet seven inches and weighed a solid one hundred and seventy pounds. When he removed his bathrobe to lie down on the massage table, I was pleasantly shocked. At sixty-five years old Ric (or as I would call him, Mister B) carried no visible body fat. His tight lean frame was covered in a thick pelt of white hair.

"Mr. B., you are in great shape," I said covering the lower portion of his body with the sheet.

“Chick, if you don't mind, lose the sheet. I am not shy and besides, it's just you, me and Buck," Ric laughed, his voice muffled by the face cradle at the end of the bed. Buck was Ric’s partner and although he too had a head of silver hair, he was twenty years younger than Ric. I did what I was told and removed the sheet. I became envious of his tight butt.

Ric and Buck shared a home in Beverly Hills. They also owned a ranch in Palm Springs as well as a chalet in southern France. Buck kept a small apartment in Manhattan. Now they owned one of the six penthouse suites at The Spa. The two bedrooms and two-bathroom oasis on the thirty-ninth floor had the most beautiful view of the ocean and South Beach. The furnishings were kept minimal. Low white sofas were arranged facing the water and a glass dining table with eight matching chairs sat on the soft colored travertine tile that ran throughout the entire twenty seven hundred square feet. It was the perfect setting for a grand party. I set up the portable massage table in the living area facing the ocean. As I massaged Ric’s strong back, I looked out onto the horizon. A cruise ship, tiny on the vast ocean was sailing for ports south. Everything was right with the world.

Buck passed on his way from the bedroom to the kitchen. I turned from daydreaming to watch him walk past me. He too had a nice physique; flat stomach, broad shoulders that tapered to slim hips and like Ric, thick muscular legs. A small grey moustache was the only body hair I saw. He would be on the table soon, and I would find out for myself. Ric moaned as I massaged the back of his legs. Buck caught my eye and winked; a sly smile crept on his face. I blushed.

"Mr. B., are you ready to flip over?" I whispered.

"Yeah, sure," he replied in a sleepy voice.

I helped him onto his back. Ric’s erection stood straight up, resembling the mast on a sailboat. I was always a little nervous when things like this happened at work, especially when they happened in the guest’s private quarters. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I was a professional, and I was going to get through with this massage. When I opened my eyes, Ric was staring up at me.

"Anything wrong?" he asked.

"Um, no, no," I stumbled.

"Don't pay that any attention, Chick. It has a mind of its own," he said with a hearty laugh. Instantly Ric put me at ease. I finished the massage without hesitation.

"Chick, that was great!"

"Thanks," I answered.

"No, I mean it. It was probably the best massage I have ever received without a happy ending," he said with a wink. “What are you doing this evening?”

“I have no real plans.”

“Aren’t you married or something?... You wear a ring.”

“I was,” I said, holding my hand up and looking at my gold band, “for over twenty years.”

“And what happened?”

“He passed away two years ago from a heart attack. In fact, April would have been our silver anniversary.”

“I’m sorry.” Ric offered, touching my hand.

“Thank you, Mr. B., but there is no need to be sorry. You didn’t know.”

“I want you to come to a little party that Buck and I are hosting here, tonight. Now that I know that you are single, it is imperative that you attend. You are single, aren‘t you?”

“Yes. Yes I am very single.” I said, my chin to my chest.

Ric stood up from the massage table and lifted my chin as he looked me in the eye.

“You’re coming. That’s all there is to say about that.”

“I would love to, Mr. B., but the management doesn’t like for the staff to fraternize with the guests.”

“Nonsense, Chick, you now are our friend. I’ll not hear another word about it! Be here at eight.”

Ric threw his robe over his shoulder and walked out of the room; his firm buttocks moving side to side without a single jiggle.

Buck hurried into the room. He stopped at the foot of the bed and dropped his shorts, removing any doubt I had concerning his body hair.

I am not one for a lot of jewelry. I wore my gold ring; I know is not very fashionable any more and my Uncle Raymond’s watch which he had worn in World War II. It still worked; all you had to do was set it and wind it. What I liked about the watch was it still sported the original brown, leather crocodile band. I decided on wearing a long sleeve white shirt, untucked, and faded, boot cut jeans with ankle high boots. A cocktail of Jack Daniels and soda completed my outfit.

I forgot how much I enjoy watching gay men interact with one another. The gentle touch on a sleeve as they talk or once they find someone attractive, they caress the part of their own body they think is sexy. Ric was busy taking photographs of everyone at the party. He was arranging people in different groupings, and it seemed that everyone was having a good time being involved with the pictures. Ric was a prominent attorney in Los Angeles, but his true love was photography. He even had several galleries showing his studies of male nudes as well as two books on men over the age of forty in all their glory.

“You all know Chick, don’t you?” Ric said, throwing his arm up and over my shoulder. “He is the best massage therapist in all of South Florida.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Mr. B,” I said.

“I would,” he returned. “Whenever you’re in town, you should try him out, er, I mean, let him give you a massage.” Ric started to laugh, and the whole group laughed aloud. That was what I liked about Ric; he made everyone feel at ease. No wonder his portraits were so perfect; his models never worried about anything.

Not everybody was enjoying himself, in fact I noticed this guy that was not having any fun at all. He seemed out of place. I had an eerie feeling that I knew him from somewhere. He was dressed in faded khaki pants and a long sleeve white tee shirt under a dark polo. I could tell by his pale complexion and the dark circles around his eyes that he did not get out in the sun much. His hair was cut in a Mohawk style with the sides shaved and the top and back left longer. It was dyed waitress black. By that, I mean that it was the color of shoe polish, but had no shine whatever. His earlobes were stretched open big enough that you could insert a quarter.

Ric walked by and I grabbed him.

“Who is that guy in the corner?” I asked, gesturing with my head.

“You mean Angel?” Ric asked.

“Angel who?”

“Just Angel. He goes by one name, you know like, Madonna or Cher. He is an artist on the beach, and I love his work. Do you want to meet him? You better be warned he is a bit of a cliché”

“Cliché?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know the brooding artist. The tortured soul. Please, his father died and left him a windfall.”

“Windfall?”

“A lot of money. You know, Chick, sometimes I think you really did fall off the turnip truck. His father was in the Cuban black market. He sold jewelry, televisions, cell phones, you know. He made lots of money. I mean mucho thousands of dollars. He died of a heart attack and left all his money to Angel. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” Before I could protest, Ric grabbed my hand and whisked me toward Angel.

“Hey Angel, there’s someone here who wants to meet you. This is my good friend and massage therapist Chick. He works here at The Spa,” Ric said leaving the two of us alone in an awkward silence .

I cleared my throat, “Hello, Angel,” I said extending my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Ric says that you do some great work”

Angel did not move from his chair but looked me in the eye.

“I see you are still drinking,” he mumbled.

”Excuse me?” I asked. I could not believe my ears. ”Do I know you?”

“You are still drinking.” his eyes never left mine.

“What do you mean by that?” I looked from side to side, nervously.

“Nothing.” With a disgusted look on his face Angel rose from his seat and left the room. That is when I noticed the tattoo on his neck, a large red rose with a dagger running through it and drops of blood disappearing into his shirt. I could feel my heart beat in my throat. I stood there dumbfounded.

“Is everything okay?” It was Buck. “Chick, I’m talking to you. Is everything all right?” He shook me by the shoulders.

“Yeah, sure.” I turned to Buck, as in a dream. “Have you ever met someone and felt like you’ve met them before?”

“Well. Yeah. Sure...Him?”

“Yes, Angel. I have a weird feeling about him, and I don’t know why.” I looked at my drink, put it down on the nearest table, said my good byes, and left.