Time stands still in the dark, and a nightclub is no exception. Still, it's far glitzier than the average cruising spot. In a nightclub, you can find men looking their best, dancing, sweating, sometimes nearly getting it on right on the dance floor. It's a great hangout for twinks in glitter, though effeminate men were never my type.
I had been married to a woman for five years anyway, although Natasha still had no clue that I wasn't really working late at the university. The old school gays got it right, in the sense that if they wanted a man then they wanted a real man. Not a skinny guy with fake tits, not an overtly swishy guy with coarse body hair who dressed in broad ties and talked loudly about his BSDM escapades. If I wanted to hear endless feminine chatter, I would listen to Natasha talk on the phone about how hard it is to get an inexpensive manicure from someone who speaks English.
So, if anything, I had always wanted a sensitive and mysterious quiet type who could be categorized as pretty as well as handsome. Maybe an artist of some sort, or even a musician. Joseph was just that type. He emigrated from Britain as a scholar and taught at Boston University before getting an MFA at Julliard. So he was obviously not the type who would be hanging around a gay nightclub at 1:30 in the morning, chain smoking in the corner next to the back exit like a suckling baby. But there he was, and that's when I first saw the man who would turn my double life upside down.
I didn't know how to approach him at first, but seeing that he was dressed smartly I decided to treat him as such. I said hello and shook his hand, giving his eyes a direct gaze that indicated my intentions. He looked back at me with a relaxed yet flirty stare, batting his thick lashes over his intense blue eyes. He was breathtaking, with a shock of pale skin and dark hair. The thought of a night with him sent lightning bolts through my skin.
"Would you, um, care to sit with me?" I said, as if I were a nervous schoolboy again. "I can pay for anything. Champagne? Whatever. I'm sorry, what's your name?"
His soft lips curled upward into a grin, his chin raised slightly in a proper manner.
"Joseph Drake," he said. "I believe I saw you last week at the symphony."
"Oh, um, yeah..." I said. "Gosh, all I remember is that I went on a Friday afternoon and my jacket was too thin for the cold weather outside."
"And you were with a woman," he said quizzically. "An attractive, willowy one with raven hair and red lipstick. Correct?"
I blushed, both angry and embarrassed. I wanted this man badly, and yet he knew my secret the minute I approached him. How did this happen? Did he follow me here just to play games? He leaned gracefully towards my shoulder and whispered into my ear.
"She must be clueless," he said playfully. "Just like my wife."
I exhaled, still shaking. I usually didn't like games, but I knew that growing up in New England meant my life would be full of them. But somehow I not only wanted to play this game, but win hands down. I almost felt like I was ready to bend him over right there, but my hands just gripped the sides of his shoulders as I nearly lost my footing. Then I looked up at him.
"I just want you," I said, nearly in tears. "I can't help myself. I've lived a lie all of my life because I was raised Catholic. Irish Catholic! Please..."
He gently placed his index and forefinger on my lips.
"Shhh," he said. "I don't want to see you like this. Listen, do you think I would have remembered you if I didn't want you as well?" He took a last drag from his cigarette before putting it out surreptitiously on the floor.
"Now let's leave this place," he said, "Before they find out I've been smoking."
Joseph gave directions as I drove through the chilly November streets. Students were supposedly studying for their exams, although I recognized a few outside laughing and snapping digital photos way past curfew. Still, if my own students saw me at that hour, driving God knows where with a strange man in the passenger seat giving directions to his house in Stoneham, I couldn't exactly chide them for their conduct. I just wanted to get the hell out of sight as quickly as possible.
"Turn left," he said, gesturing. "It's the old, white brick one with the stovepipe. Oldest house on the block."
I turned into the driveway of this white brick house. The pavement was cracked like glass, with tufts of grass pouring through the imperfections. The steps were narrow and slippery with mold, and Joseph went so far as to hold my hand in the dark.
"The light is out," he said. "I apologize."
