Читать книгу Between Boyfriends - Michael Salvatore - Страница 7

Four Years Ago

The greatest thing about being gay is that moment when you walk down the street holding your boyfriend’s hand and you forget that you’re holding his hand. Gay becomes natural. You don’t think about it anymore, you don’t question it or celebrate it; it simply is who and what you are. That’s the way it was for me and Jack as we strolled down Sixth Avenue to do some Saturday afternoon shopping after a morning of kissing, fondling, and HGTV-watching while munching on bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. At that time Jack DiRenza had been my boyfriend for three years, my live-in boyfriend for one year, ten months, two weeks, and six days of that time. I’m not counting, I just have a really good memory.

“Hey, Stevie B.,” Jack asked in between sips of a Starbucks grande mocha Frappuccino. “Do we need a new butter warmer?”

“Does anyone need an old butter warmer?” I asked in between sips of my iced grande skim mocha, which is my summer Starbucks drink as opposed to my most favorite Starbucks drink, which is a Venti skim, extra-hot, light-whipped peppermint mocha that I drink from Labor Day to Memorial Day. All my friends know that I like my coffee to be like my boyfriend—consistent.

“Your birthday is coming up and I’m planning a surprise lobster dinner,” Jack said. “And what’s a lobster dinner without warm butter?”

“Sounds yummy,” I said. “But honey, the surprise lobster dinner is only a surprise if you don’t tell me about it.”

Jack smirked like a Catholic schoolboy on the verge of committing a venial sin and said, “I didn’t tell you what I’m going to do to you for dessert.”

Smiling like the happiest gay in the world I held on to my boyfriend’s perfectly calloused hand, sipped my Starbucks, and entered Bed, Bath & Behind to buy an unnecessary kitchen appliance. Because that’s what you do on a Saturday afternoon in Manhattan when you’re gay and in love. Who knew that exactly two weeks later my perfect boyfriend would kick me out of his apartment and his life with barely an explanation and force me to take up residence in the mad, mad, mad, mad world of the single gay man.

On that terrible night, while the rest of the gay world went out clubbing or stayed in snuggling, I slept on my best friend Flynn’s pull-out Jennifer Convertible trying to figure out how I could shoot my ex-boyfriend without winding up on Rikers Island. When thoughts of homo-cide had left my brain, I wondered how I had gone from being deliriously happy to devastatingly miserable in less than twenty-four hours. Four years later I still don’t have an answer. All I know is my name is Steven Bartholomew Ferrante and I am still a single gay man living in Manhattan. Welcome to my world.