He asks me to a party. A sex party at a gay bar, but with friends, who have sex with each other, sometimes, and only some of whom are gay. We’d meet a few before. We’d do lunch.
What does one wear to an early evening erotic event? Post-lunch, I change into fishnet stockings and plenty of black. I am nervously fascinated by my own actions. I lose a sock.
He’s gone through a nasty breakup. I’ve never met her, but I know the story. He’s hit with the emotion of absence in the lobby as we leave. I see him speak in soft, pained tones to one of the women, her hair slicked back, her eyes charcoaled: a temporary androgyne.
Does he really want to do this? Do I?
We reach his car and we’re alone. The absence of her and the presence of me hang like overripe fruit.
And I tell him we can leave. Or we can go. Or we can do something entirely different. We can go five minutes and we can fuck off. We can have a drink and talk. We can play this just exactly like we want to. And if we go, I’m going with you, we’re doing this together, and let’s see, if we want.
Somewhere, a window cracks open, and we catch a breath of night air. The car starts, and I find the Beegees on his iPod. And we’re stayin’ alive.