My Life As a Gay Man – 1985, Peter, Part III
It was a beautiful June evening when I got home from work that Friday to find George sitting on the deck of our above ground pool.
“Why aren’t you in the water? “ I asked him. “I can’t wait to get out of this monkey suit.”
“Peter called,” said George in an uncharacteristically low, calm voice.
I put my attaché case down, and sat down in the other lawn chair
The gig was up.
“You had to fuck around with somebody we knew?” he continued, again, very quietly, very un-George.
There was no rationalizing out of this one. Peter had told him everything.
“So you want to break up?” I asked, matter-of-factly.
“What do YOU want?”
“Right now, I want to get my clothes off and get a stiff drink.”
I never did give him a straight answer but we barely said a word to each other for almost a week.
Maybe I should have used the opportunity to call it quits.
But I didn’t.
Neither of us went up to Rainbow Mountain for the rest of that summer. And I didn’t bother calling Peter to yell. What the fuck was the point? The damage was done. Besides, in a strangely twisted way, I think he had done this, lashing out at me through George, because he had loved me.
Really loved me.
More than I loved him.
Two years later, we ran into Peter at the bar. He was with a taller, haggard looking guy who looked like his new paramour. Funny, even when he had the balls to come up to us to introduce Harry, neither he nor George acted as if anything had happened. And I just continued playing Mr. PR.
Looking back, I think I was a silly boy for not leaving George for this rich slab of man. Peter might be dead by now, and I would have been set for the rest of my life like some jerk I met on the beach years later in Fort Lauderdale who after taking care of his “partner,” 30 years his senior, for 15 years, and not working a day all those years, is now living off a trust fund.
But hell, at least Peter didn’t hire a hit man when I deserted him. And years later, when I named my new shelter dog, a chihuahua terrier mix, “Pete”, George, never one to forget, was convinced I had named him for the guy I let get away. (I didn’t.)
P.S.: Years later, John the Cop retired with his fat pension and his slim lover to Miami where he bought a home on the water. He was an avid bike man and nothing made him happier than being with his motorcycle bros, str8 and gay, traveling the highways and byways of Florida. A non-believer in wearing a helmet in a state that didn’t demand it, he was thrown off his bike one breezy afternoon by an truck making an illegal U-turn and found the thousand pounds of machinery he loved come crashing down on him.
He was 49, and the handsome, burly blonde with the million dollar personality had a closed coffin at his wake.
Monday:Gary, a guy I met on vacation in of all places Columbus, Ohio and who introduced me to kinky sex.