Chapter One: Paul
The guitarist had been playing flamenco rhythms when I joined Ralph Peters, Sean Madden, and Holland Howard at one of the back tables in the Kennedy Center's small KC Jazz Club hall in Washington, D.C. I'd had a few stops to make after our practice of the Gay Men's Chorus of Washington at its P Street rehearsal hall just west of Dupont Circle. Ralph, who was a State Department cultural affairs officer—and a second tenor in the chorus—had invited us to come by to listen to a cultural exchange musician from Lugo, in Spain, he was herding around the country.
The tickets were free, I needed to stop in someplace warm anyway to get out of this damn interminable snowy winter weather on the East Coast that had intruded into spring, and I wasn't anxious to be at home this evening with Sean because we were in a rolling fight that I'd come to believe would lead to a termination of our relationship. I suddenly was glad that we hadn't tied the knot the first chance we'd gotten. I was willing; he less so. I guess he knew better than I did what real commitment required.
Sean was my last real tie to Washington—beyond the men's chorus, of course. And the young and twinky blond was that rare commodity, a first tenor, in the chorus. I was a much more plentiful baritone, so if one of us had to give that up to avoid the other, it really should be me. There wasn't much other reason to hang on. When I'd retired from the law practice early, at fifty-four, I'd said I wanted to travel the world footloose and free. But I hadn't taken my shoes from under the bed Sean and I shared yet. I suspect he had been looking forward to me traveling the world too, so that he could put a variety of other shoes under my bed. In any case, it was me who was paying for the bed, and I assume that was Sean's main reason for hanging on in the relationship.
I was greeted at the Kennedy Center venue with relief by the second tenor, Ralph, who had the job of trying to make the room look like it was a sell-out crowd. I was waved in with obvious affection by Holland, who had been my colleague and mentor at the international law firm and who rounded out our little men's chorus quartet as a bass. And I was met frostily by Sean, who wanted me to know he was still in a snit, but who didn't want to push it too hard because I was the one keeping him in a luxury apartment just steps away, at the Watergate, and in food and clothes.
It took me some time to unravel all of the layers of clothing I had on in response to the snowfall outside that had continued into late March, and I had only started to complain about the weather when both Ralph and Howard held up their hands to stave off my now overly familiar complaint. I made no bones about preferring at least semitropical—or Mediterranean—climates. And yet I continued to live in the Mid-Atlantic states even past retirement and with a financial grounding that could permit me to live anywhere I wanted—and even to keep a tropical-climate second home. When I attempted the complaint, Sean just rolled his eyes and gave me a glassy stare.
The atmosphere with Sean became even more icy as the guitarist on stage segued into ballads and, for the first time, drew my attention. He was a handsome man, although perhaps with more character in his face than truly handsome. His features were rugged, dark, and brooding—almost sultry, I would say. His complexion was swarthy, with a two-day growth of beard that he probably kept at that length for the macho effect. I gauged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. His raven-black hair was wavy and worn long, shoulder length. He was slim, nearly to the point of being gaunt, but he also was muscular. I knew from the program provided that he was Spanish, from Galicia, the northwest quadrant of the country, famous for its rich cultural history and its vineyards, and I could see him spending as much time working in the vineyard as at his musical craft. As is my fetish, I imaged him working shirtless, his tight torso muscles rippling in the effort to care for the vines. He was a strange mix of refinement and roughness, and I was drawn to him by more than his music.
That wasn't to say that he wasn't proficient enough at his musical craft to be sponsored for a trip to the States and small-venue concerts in rooms like this one at the Kennedy Center. The spotlight was on the strong, calloused hands, with the long, sensuous fingers, that he was using to play his guitar, and it was as much that as the beauty I found in him and the sweet ballad music he was playing that captivated my attention—and, yes, my arousal.
The Galicia region of Spain, I thought. I hadn't considered going there. I had considered Portugal, though, which also was on the Atlantic coast just southwest of Galicia. I decided I would consider that part of Spain now, especially after I'd leaned over to Ralph and said, "Are all the men in Galicia that sexy?"
"All of them under forty," Ralph had answered, with a laugh.
I looked over at Sean, who was pouting, which, of course, on his Byronesque blond visage, looked cute, and I realized that it was, indeed, over with him. I no longer was that interested in "cute"—and certainly not in brooding.
I had retired in a pique. It wasn't Howard who had asked me if my coming out would hurt the business of the law firm, but it might as well have been him. He knew I was gay. He had initiated me—years and years ago when I was clerking for him. But he wasn't surfacing this question among the other senior partners of the firm. He was too powerful. They only brought it up when I paraded Sean out and joined the gay men's chorus. Howard hadn't come out; I had. And it wasn't Howard who took the consequences.
So, I retired early; took my assets, which were considerable, out of the firm; and started a new, carefree life. But had I really? Was I really carefree? I was still here in Washington, still with Sean in my bed—but not enjoying that nearly as much as I had when it was all hush hush.
"And what do you think of our Spanish guitarist? I mean his music, not his sultry beauty," Ralph whispered to me while the musician was taking a short break. Ralph was the nervous type, and for some reason he always wanted to know what I thought about one of his State Department cultural projects. Maybe he kept asking because I was always honest with him and he often made adjustments from my suggestions.
"He's beautiful," I answered. "I'd like to take him home with me."
"I meant the music, I said," Ralph shot back, with a laugh. "You're always ready to take a good-looking man home."
I heard a huff from the other side of the table. I thought that Ralph and I were conversing at low enough volume, but perhaps not. That was at the base of our rolling fight. Sean had dragged me to an art gallery opening—he was a curator at the Smithsonian—and had left me to flutter around with a group of his friends, so I'd taken one of the artists home for the night. Sean somehow had expected me to just stand around and be his presentable meal ticket, I guess. But if he thought I was going to let him control me like that simply because I was moving up in age, he was sadly mistaken.
Besides, I'd taken the artist home because I sensed that Sean was going to go off with one of his friends. And, indeed, he didn't return home that night. I had done what I did, I now thought, to bring the roundabout arguing we'd been doing to a boil.
"The music is beautiful too," I said. "I very much like how his hands were spotlighted. I suggest you keep that in future concerts."
"Will do. Thanks. I'm glad you liked that. I'm taking him to Vinoteca for a late dinner, and he's agreed to play a few sets in their upstairs lounge. Would you like to go with us?"
"Yes," I shot back immediately.
"And would Sean—?"
"No. We drove separately, and I know Sean has an exhibit to put together and needs to be at work early tomorrow. We'll just not mention Vinoteca, shall we?"
