Saturday, January 12, 2013
was set for murder.
the conversation arched
its back and
blew cigarette smoke
in the face
He winced, wreathed in its blue. Stood up and opened a window and then got on with his food silently. The smoker curled his finger and placed tip on the cigarette's spine, watching.
Before the remaining guests had arrived, we deliberated what were the questions that should be verboten at a dinner party as gay as this one.
- That's easy. First, 'what do you do?'.
We vigorously agreed how crass that was. Then he laughed.
- And of course, 'are you a top or a bottom'?
The others arrived and we were all introduced. Our host had warned us to tone it down, as the others weren't so comfortable with such fooling around. Of course a cigarette was lit up over the main course and blown in their faces. Tongues locked into cheek.
Around the fireplace, one of the newcomers asked how long we had been together, Lennie and I.
- Almost nine years, I replied.
He frowned as if it were an impossibility. Then he asked, - so you're in an open relationship?
There, that's question number three, and it's one you should never, never ask a gay couple.
His friend, a sexy Italian astronomer poured into tight jeans that had been engineered to focus your gaze unswervingly on his butt, devoured me with his eyes.