I had missed one Sunday brunch and apparently in that sparse amount of time Michael had found himself a yet another boyfriend. Michael is a serial monogamist. (Except when he’s whoring it out in gym steam rooms.) Daniel, Ryan, Christopher (sans Alfredo) Michael, and I sat at Cafe Cluny to get the skinny on his latest boyfriend.
“He’s just so incredible and is probably the most attentive man I’ve ever been with,” Michael cooed.
“I would hope so, considering you’ve been together for literally four days,” Christopher said taking off his jacket and settled into his chair. It was nice to have Christopher back with out his fiance. I couldn’t stomach yet another weekend of wedding talk.
“What he’s like?” I asked. “Wait, let me guess dark hair and eyes.”
“Ha!” Daniel blurts out. “Dark hair?!?!?” Daniel continued.
“He’s got a few gray hairs,” Michael, still wearing his sunglasses, turned to me and said sheepishly.
“Speak,” I said.
“Well…” he said taking a long gay pause. “He’s older,” he added. As if I didn’t figure that out from the gray hair observation.
“Older?” Daniel said surprised. “Farrah is older. This guy is Old Man Winter.” Evil Queen.
“I’m sure that’s how your NYU boy-toy thinks of you,” Michael snapped back at Daniel.
“Please, you wish you could have him,” Daniel shot back. It’s like two dogs fighting over the same gay bone.
“Jesus, could someone please just tell me how old this guy is?” I asked.
“Fifty-six,” Ryan finally said. He then turned to Michael and said, “Sorry. She’d find out anyway.”
I swallowed hard. This was only four years younger than my Dad. Michael could be dating my Dad.
“Michael, I really want to know more about this guy–but could you for the love of God take your sunglasses off. It’s like I’m talking to Anna Wintour. And frankly you’re no Anna.”
Michael lifted his oversized Mary-Kate sunglasses and rested them on top of his head. “Oh My God,” I gasped loud enough for the nearest four tables to turn around and flash me dirty looks.
“Too much?” Michael said.
“You look like Jennifer Lopez’s butch sister,” I said. “And not the pretty one.”
“Who Linda?” Daniel asked to no one in particular.
Michael’s eyebrows were as about as thick as a paperclip. Michael had visited his waxer, Sasha, yesterday.
“Was she injecting heroin at the same time she was ripping out your eyebrows?” I asked.
“Charles likes totally smooth,” Michael explained.
“Okay that’s just plain pervy,” Ryan said and crinkled his forehead.
Ignoring him, Michael continued, “So I waxed nearly everything. That’s why I couldn’t go out last night. I literally applied a bottle and a half of Tend Skin to my entire body.”
I gulped down my water to avoid laughter.
“The eyebrows were an accident. She told me she got a bit carried away.”
“Carried Away?” I said nearly spit out my water. Before I could say anything else, Ryan interrupted.
“Okay, seriously. You need to go in there and get your money back and have them correct it immediately. Maybe they have some sort of eyebrow extension or something, but you honestly look like the joker.” Ryan said.
“Before the food arrives, really Michael, you have to put your sunglasses back on. I can’t look at you while I’m trying to keep food down,” I said and gagged. I continued:
“It’s like I’m sitting across from my nana who forgot to paint her eyebrows on.”
After this many years, I was allowed to be direct with my boys. They hate me for it at the time, and most likely talk about me when I leave the table, but they do appreciate my honesty no matter how it is delivered.
In turn, Michael gave me the finger.
“I just don’t get why you did it.” Ryan said. “You’re intelligent, you have a good job, you can practically quote the New York Times back to me, you go to the Met, you attend art openings. Why all of the sudden, after thirty-five years, do you feel the need to feel like a dolphin?
“You wouldn’t understand,” Michael said annoyed.
“Try me,” Ryan said.
“You’re hot Ryan–as gross as that sounds coming out of my mouth–you’re generally someone that three quarters of gay New York wants to sleep with. You have no idea what it is like to be me,” Michael said.
“Here we go,” Daniel interrupted. “I’m not participating in this pity party.”
“Do you guys know how absolutely fucking amazing it feels to be someone’s trophy boy?” Michael said. The truth was most of the boys had been a trophy boy to someone at one point in their younger days except for Michael.
“I’m thirty-five years old–I’m literally in my gay twilight years according to New York gay scene standards. But right now, as fleeting as it may be, I have a man that WORSHIPS me. So if he likes me to be completely smooth from head to toe, goddamn it I will be.”
We were momentarily silent. He was right. To have someone be enamored with you at any age was an incredible feeling. We should be happy that our friend found someone plain and simple. We were immature assholes.
Before we could express our deepest apologies, Michael finally spoke up and said:
“And he has a huge penis.”
Apparently, some things never change–no matter how old you are.