Edmund White - Our Young Man

They sat down to a big porterhouse steak, creamed spinach, and a quart of sour red wine, all topped off with a brandy alexander pie in a graham cracker crust. Their “romantic table” was positioned under a dusty chandelier missing lusters. The whole place felt dirty, greasy. Guy had swilled three Rusty Nails over shaved ice and then willingly, drunkenly presented Fred with his asshole, with a full-sized replica of the David in the corner, apparently carved out of soap, its penis no more erect than Fred’s. But what Fred lacked in turgidity he made up for in passionate utterance. “I’m the luckiest man in the world,” he mumbled into Guy’s crotch.

It was all over in five minutes and Guy was drunk enough to sleep through Fred’s scary-sounding roller-coaster snores — his chain-saw breathing, then his disturbingly long silences and his sudden, panicked gasps.

They woke up early and Guy hurried to take his shower and dress before Fred began with another blowjob, this one with halitosis. In fact, Guy hurried off to the breakfast nook with its goblin-and-leprechaun motif for a first cup of coffee and a squishy croissant. Fred looked reproachful and slightly uncertain.

They saw three more houses before heading back to New York; Fred decided to rent a new house right on the beach — a cool $60,000 for the four-month season. Guy said, “I’m sure you could buy a house somewhere for that sum.”

“But it wouldn’t be the Pines,” Fred pointed out, “and no one would visit. Not even you.”

Guy was impressed by his take-charge attitude; he hadn’t seen that side before.

Fred bought the house after they’d road-tested it for the summer. Guy, following Pierre-Georges’s advice, hadn’t put out to Fred once after that one drunken night, and Guy’s indifference or coldness, though he was always scrupulously polite, had brought Fred to his knees. Maybe Fred was so much in love because he was used to women caving before his assaults, in particular starlets and cute unpaid interns, but Guy was a man, French, well paid, not striving to get into the movies. Guy was an A-list gay, young, buffed, a head-turner, everything Fred wanted to be. Although Guy didn’t do drugs very often, most of the youngsters hanging around their pool did, and when stoned they weren’t exactly interesting but strangely tender and considerate. It was as if these beautiful, fit boys, usually so wary and disdainful, suddenly shed a constricting shell when they were stoned and became both vulnerable and expansive, capable of looking with humanity and genuine curiosity at a much older man, normally a pariah. A couple of times some A-listers, who were high, had even started making out with Fred, but he didn’t dare go all the way with them in case that would suggest to Guy that he, Fred, wasn’t single-minded in his devotion.

Pierre-Georges had researched Fred and called up with a full report: “First of all, Hampton isn’t his real last name. It’s Gershowitz. Before he became a movie producer he owned a chain of shoe stores in malls up and down the East Coast. His wife is the daughter of the smoked salmon king of the Bronx. He’s made forty-seven movies. He’s declared bankruptcy twice. That’s all I could find.”

In the morning Fred would get up early, shave, and shower, and slip into bed beside Guy; the young man would permit that much. Fred would then force himself to go on long walks to Water Island with his red setter, Sandy. Anything rather than to lie with a hard-on wide awake beside Guy. A gay friend of Fred’s from college days, someone he’d never known well but now confided in when they re-met on Fire Island, asked him after he recounted the whole saga with Guy, “But what do you love about him? What’s so great about him except he’s handsome, and French, and sought after?”

They walked in silence for a minute along the beach, both of them sort of boxy and chunky in their loose trunks, but handsome, with worn, seasoned faces. “You know what I think?” the guy, who was named Vito, said. “I think you’re having problems coming out. I’ve seen that before.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve left Ceil, the kids are furious with me—”

“Yeah, but a lot of guys, when they’re coming out, keep clinging to the first man in their lives, the more unavailable the better. That way they can say to themselves two things—’It’s not that I’m gay, it’s just that I love Guy,’ and the other thing, ‘Oh, if only Guy loved me I’d be gay, but he doesn’t.’”

“That’s a low blow,” Fred said, scuffing his feet in the sand, hoping the abrasion might wear away the calluses on his heels. He wasn’t really paying attention, but he didn’t like the sound of Guy not being in love with him. Guy was so “binding,” to use a word his shrink had introduced only last week, precisely because he was so mysterious. Maybe that was just the famous French discretion, the don’t-ask-don’t-tell of those fellows. (Guy had mentioned that.)

Fred looked over at Vito. He didn’t like to be seen with an old guy — okay, someone his own age, but Fred had just lost twenty years with all his surgery, yet if he hung out with Vito people might start noticing his leathery elbows and his too-perfect replacement teeth. No one was up yet, however, at this hour. They had the beach to themselves and Fred felt safe.

“But what’s so great about Guy?” Vito persisted.

“He’s fresh, young, unspoiled. He makes me feel young.”

“You look older with that face-lift and tummy tuck and those skinny legs and those hair plugs and that harsh black dye.”

“Do you think you look so great, with that bald head and big belly? It’s hard to believe you’re the same age as I am. Guy couldn’t believe it when I told him. You’ve really let yourself go.”

“Personally, I like a face that’s not so lifted it can’t still smile. A natural man’s face. Guy’s just humoring you — he’s a gold digger.”

Fred thought about what he loved in Guy. Guy was beautiful. Guy was classy. Guy was sophisticated. Guy was kind.

Was he bright, inquisitive? Guy could speak two languages and he’d lived here — what did he say? — only two years, and for someone in his early twenties he’d really boned up on old pop songs and old movies, though, like most foreigners, Fred guessed, Guy didn’t know anything about old TV shows except Colombo , which they saw in France, for some reason.

Was he really a gold digger? He made a fortune out of modeling. He didn’t need anyone else’s money.

When it came down to it, Fred had to admit he liked being seen with Guy, and Guy always leaned on his shoulder in public and whispered in his ear — well, it was nice to have some arm candy like Guy around. It was good for his image. Whereas a companion like Vito was bad for business — it was like an old whore walking an old dog, it led to invidious comparisons.

Fred suddenly announced he was going to jog and he took off running with his dog down the beach. What if some early riser in one of these houses had been watching them through binoculars?

Guy liked Fred around because his presence meant he wasn’t tempted to sleep with any of these hot boys hanging around the pool. This new gay cancer was dangerous — four more of Guy’s friends were dying. Guy didn’t want to sleep with Fred, though he didn’t mind if Fred slipped in beside him in bed for an hour at dawn. One time he’d awakened at midnight to see Fred with a flashlight looking at Guy’s cock. Guy was sleeping on his stomach as he usually did. Fred was pushing the mattress down at Guy’s crotch level and kneeling and studying his penis in the soft light. Guy shouted and sat upright and ordered Fred out. They never discussed it and it never happened again, but Fred was sheepish and silent for a day and he bought four bottles of Cristal for the boys around the pool.