That Boston Boy (an Affair)

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Dear Reader,

This one's pretty nerdy, and I make a lot of semi-obscure references. But I hope the story moves, and moves you, in ways you maybe didn't expect. Above all I hope it's fun, and an enjoyable ride....

-

-

-

-

-

-

Ceci n'est pas un poème pour Michel

It was a dark and stormy night. No really, it was. A late August thunderstorm was pounding the windows of the apartment. Second from the top at the corner of Massachusetts Ave and Tremont, it occupied a prestigious position in a strip of gorgeous brick row homes in Boston's South End. Also, being situated above a favorite bar, the Parish Pub, made it an entirely dangerous place to come home to every night from a sobriety standpoint, but thankfully that never became a problem.

I lived with my boyfriend Jeff, though if I'm honest it was one of those relationships that went from zero to sixty on the first date, as was my style back then: "Well this worked for a 24-hour period and the sex was fun so you must be my new husband." As a consequence, over the couple years we lived together, we became more like roommates. I did care for Jeff deeply, don't get me wrong, and I was in it to win it (so I thought), but he had the emotional availability of an apple, and torrents of affection flowed in one direction only. But we were an amazing couple on Facebook.

"All the windows closed?" I shouted over peals of thunder.

"Whaaat?"

I walked down the long hallway toward the front of the apartment. "Just wondering if-"

"James, you know I can't hear you when you talk to me from another room!"

"...the windows are all closed." I had answered my own question with that walk through the apartment, and sat down on the couch opposite Jeff, picking up and opening my laptop.

"Yes, they are." Jeff gave me the friendly little eye-roll and smile that said, 'You're ridiculous.'

In the months leading up to my graduation from medical school in Chicago and preparing to start residency in a new city, I had joined D-List, an early-to-late-2000s website for gay men that was like MySpace meets Spotify. With it I had found and scheduled a date or two with guys in Boston before I had even moved there. Those dates were fun but nothing serious, and I met Jeff in person just a few months after arriving. The funny thing, though, is that of the acquaintances I made on D-List, I still talk to several regularly, whereas Facebook is mostly a morass of people I rarely engage. Bigger isn't always better.

Anyhow, one of the guys I met on D-List was my friend Daniel Parish. His profile picture was, and is, so epically stunning that I still tease him about it: just the left half of his face (his left), from an inch above the eyebrow down to the chin, with the most sublime brown tresses sweeping down into view from his forehead, covering the top of his ear. A sensibly-lengthed sideburn was visible. His eye, wide and clear, stared directly out at me and bored into my soul. All of this was filtered neatly in sepia, so it was difficult to tell what color his eyes actually were. I imagined something different every time I looked.

And then there was the mouth. Really, less than half of it was visible, but isn't modesty time and again more sexually enticing than nudity? What I could see of the lips screamed 'pink' clear through the sepia. And the bottom one looked fuller than anyone's had a right to be. As if all of this weren't enough to make me want to bookmark his page in my browser and send him a stalkerish amount of communication, the composition of his selfie reminded me of my favorite iconic photograph, Andreas Feininger's The Photojournalist, showing a stunning young Dennis Stock similarly pouting behind his Leica. Obscured just enough, and also with unfairly-full lips and a wisp of brown hair, Dennis taunted me to imagine what was hidden behind the camera that blended so perfectly cyborg-like into his features. Daniel's photo teased similarly, even though I knew how the rest of him looked. Irresistible.

Daniel grew up in New Hampshire and attended university there, studying English Literature. My understanding of New England geography was still evolving — I blame the fact that the entire area was en bloc in my United States Jigsaw Puzzle as a child. I was used to the more generous size and milder accents of Midwestern states, and I would chuckle with amusement as I sometimes drove through two or even three states on road trips. That confusion about distance may explain why I never considered that Daniel might actually visit me in Boston one day.

We chatted often over the most popular medium of the time, arguably of all time, AOL Instant Messenger. When I found out that behind the sepia facade was a sparkling intellect and razor wit, I developed a hefty crush. Internet crushes were so breezily easy and low stakes, and led to many a daydream or evening fantasy with a cast of characters across the country, whom I was unlikely to meet. This one turned out to be closer than I thought.

Danners86: Hey doc

NerdoJames: Boo what are you doing?

Danners86: Grinding up pages of Keats and snorting them.

NerdoJames: Look up his nose, ye mighty, and despair!

Danners86: Dude that's Shelley

NerdoJames: Oh. Well you would know.

Danners86: That I would. What are you doing the last week of September?

NerdoJames: Preparing to flip the calendar to "October?"

Danners86: I picture a ceremony, with incense and Gregorian Chant — robes and hoods and such.

NerdoJames: What happens when we run out of wit?

Danners86: The lone and level sands will stretch far away...

NerdoJames: Nice.

Danners86: I'm coming to Boston.

My heart skipped a beat. That's what happened, though that's perhaps a little inaccurate for what I mean to portray. It was somewhere between a dream come true and devastation. Daniel and I had been talking to each other for a few years, and part of the safety of flirting with him so desperately, and repeatedly imagining shagging him senseless, was the belief that we'd probably never meet. Most of the safety of Instant Messenger was that no one could see or hear you.

NerdoJames: Oh, wow! What's that about?

Danners86: There's a study abroad program for English Lit through Harvard, and I have an interview for it.

NerdoJames: Whoa, an interview at the Scarlet H. They gonna give you a typewriter and see how many sonnets you can crank out in 5 minutes?

Danners86: Basically. It's three days. There's an intense interview process during the day, and I'll be free at night.

NerdoJames: What days?

Danners86: Weds through Fri, figured I'd travel back up here Sat AM.

NerdoJames: Cool cool. What's involved in the program if you get accepted?

Danners86: A year in Laos.

NerdoJames: Laos?

Danners86: No, you idiot. England. So are you going to be around those dates?

NerdoJames: I'll have to check, but it would be great to finally meet!

I was a little surprised at how cagey I was acting. A wise friend once told me to pay attention when I felt irritated or surprised at myself, because there was something there that deserved attention. My hospital schedule spelled out each week for the entire year — why was I failing to mention that I would have relatively light duty at work that week?

Danners86: Okay, well just let me know. I'll be staying at the Mandarin Oriental.

NerdoJames: Big Harvard money puttin you up?

Danners86: Yeah, right. Actually I'm paying for this myself. And that's why I'm staying at the Midtown.

I pretended not to know that that was blocks from where I lived. The Midtown Hotel was and is one of my favorite buildings in Boston — low, hunkered-down 1960s slab architecture with right angles and overhangs everywhere, giant windows, all done in white — I loved it. Whereas usually I might make a quip like, "Are you staying in the Mike and Carol Brady Suite or the Alice and Sam the Butcher Annex?" I restrained myself to:

NerdoJames: Oh okay. Well I just looked at my schedule and I'll definitely be around.

Danners86: Great. It's been a while since I was down that way and maybe you can show me some of your favorite places.

Danners86: I'll be in Weds morning and have things to do, have to truck over to Harvard, but should be free around dinner.

NerdoJames: Fun!

Danners86: Alright, back to inhaling Keats.

NerdoJames: Beauty is truth.

Danners86: Now you've got it.

The weeks in September flew by like most of the weeks at that point in my life, busy with work, busy having as much fun as possible outside of work, sleeping when I could no longer do either of the other two. Life was comfortable in the apartment, and Jeff and I knitted our lives together, though communication was often sparse and sometimes faulty.

"What are you going to do when I'm away next week?" Jeff asked me, as we had dinner.

"Wait...what?" I'm sure he had told me he was traveling. I probably hadn't registered it.

"Next week, silly, when I'm away at my conference." His job in pharmaceuticals had many perks, including travel, that benefited us both. This time I wasn't able to go along, and that might be why I had put it out of mind.

I recovered. "Of course. Duh. Well I'll just be...working as usual. Y'know."

"I decided to stay in Miami an extra couple days to get some beach time, so I'll be back Sunday."

"That sounds fun, too bad I can't have some 'beach time.'" I pouted.

"Well, get a job in pharma!"

"Don't tempt me." My hours this week had been grueling. And this was unfortunately typical of our relationship, in retrospect. Jeff was going to take an additional weekend away to have fun in the sun, I would continue to work twelve- to fifteen-hour days, and all the sympathy he could muster, apparently, was, "get a new job." Which of course wasn't an option unless I never wished to practice medicine.

Was it wrong that I didn't mention Daniel's visit? Should I have? Maybe I genuinely wasn't thinking about it.

Okay, that's a bald-faced lie. I couldn't stop thinking about The Visit. I imagined scenes of doing Boston Things with Daniel before I went to bed at night. Sometimes I imagined things that would curl even Boston's liberal toes. And though I was feeling the safety buffer of distance dissolving, there was an additional barrier of protection that allowed me to fantasize about him freely: Daniel had been in a stable relationship with Joey for longer than Jeff and I had been together. Sure, imagine kissing him, lying naked with him, hell, tell him he can stay with you now that Jeff's going to be gone — it's all good, because nothing crazy is going to happen.

Wait, did I really consider that last part?

- - - - - - -

The doorbell rang about 8:15 and I almost spat out my coffee. The Keurig needed cleaning and was brewing coffee-flavored piss anyhow, so it wouldn't have been a loss. I was dressed for work and was able to go in a little later this particular morning, due to my lighter schedule. I hurried out the door of the apartment into the stairwell, and down three flights to the front entrance on Mass Ave. My heart was beating a little faster than I thought appropriate, so I asked it nicely to slow down, please, and it taunted me by skipping a beat.

I twisted the knob and pulled the door open, and suddenly I was watching a Pantene commercial. A head that was turned away watching something down the street now spun towards me, in what seemed like slow motion, rippling waves of the most outrageously luxurious and silky shoulder-length auburn hair. As it bounced, full of body and radiance, left and then back right across the face it settled to frame, I think my jaw hit the ground. Eyes looked up at me, angels played harps, choruses sang Ode to Joy, and my brain could only manage—

"Hazel." I must have looked dazed.

"Daniel... James it's me, Daniel," he laughed.

I caught up quick, like jumping off a moving vehicle and having to run to keep from face-planting. "Your eyes. They're hazel. I never could quite tell from pictures." My heart was in my throat. He was fucking gorgeous in person. I knew he often did fun things with his hair, and that it was longer lately, but apparently I hadn't seen an updated picture in the past six months.

The eyes smiled at me. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"And you as well." I held out a hand, and Daniel put down a small suitcase he was holding to shake it. His grip was firm but gentle. I imagined it said a million things that it probably didn't. "Let me help you with your bags."

In addition to the suitcase, he had a suit bag over his arm, and a leather shoulder bag. I grabbed the suitcase and held the door for him to go in ahead of me. "Up three," I said.

"Aye, aye, cap'n." He began to climb the stairs ahead of me. My senses were hyper-aware; I'd imagined what he would look like in person for years, how he would move, what he would smell like. He was both dorkier and more graceful at the same time than I had imagined. Long legs (or so they looked from here), skinny-ish dark jeans with brown leather ankle boots, blue hoodie, and that hair.

He was about as tall as I was, but looked taller as I followed him up. My breathing got heavier as I climbed and my lungs were filled with a woody, semi-sweet cologne, probably something from Dolce & Gabbana.

We arrived at the apartment, got inside, and as I turned and put the suitcase down, I was suddenly clutched from behind. His arms were around me and there was brown hair cascading over my left shoulder.

"Thank you for letting me stay here. You have no idea how much money it's saving me." He squeezed to punctuate his sentence and let go.

"Actually I do, I've had to say in hotels around here before," I joked. "The maid's quarters are down the hall and let me know if you need more Lemon Pledge."

He rolled his hazel eyes. His smile was slightly crooked in his pictures online, and I always figured he made it that way on purpose to look cuter. In person it was genuine, disarming, and just...did he have to do that? "The least you can do is let me buy you dinners or something," he offered, looking down, scratching the back of his head, and looking back up at me. Did he have to do that too?

"Honestly, it's no big deal. Please don't feel you're imposing— it was my suggestion after all. Let's get you your room and your keys." I led him rightward down the hall past the kitchen to the spare bedroom on the left. The bathroom was on the right, and my bedroom straight ahead. The living room was back the other direction and faced onto Mass and Tremont.

He wheeled his suitcase into the room, set the suit bag neatly onto the bed next to the guest towels I had put there, and put his shoulder bag on the floor. A toss of his head threw his tresses back away from his face as he stood back up. That was more like a Clairol commercial. I had a hard time with competing thoughts in my brain that he was either goofy, or sexy. Maybe he was both. The fact is, he didn't seem to be trying to be anything in particular — and for better or worse, that always attracted me more than anything.

I went to the kitchen to get the spare key set off the hook where it hung, and walked back to his room. I promptly dropped the keys. He had taken off the bulky blue hoodie and was standing there in a bright white t-shirt that contoured itself perfectly to his ectomorphic frame. His hazel eyes stared from behind his hair, which was all over the place, charged with static by a journey through the neck of his hoodie. His arms were slender. And that pout! I don't know what it was about the whole picture, but it was so perfectly balanced and... dare I say a little feminine, in a way so attractive it hurt. It wasn't just the hair; there was a grace about him that made me think back to my Classical training, Greeks and Romans and their notions of beauty. This boy had the same look that made Hadrian's toga twitch when he saw Antinous.

I picked up the keys and showed Daniel what each was for. "Outside door, inside door, and side... I should just take that one off, you probably won't ever need it." Removed the extra key, handed them to him. "I should probably get going to the hospital — it's just a few blocks away too, so if you need anything, or lock yourself out, I can always run back. How are you getting to Hahvahd?"

"I was going to drive; my car is just a couple blocks away from here in a spot that looks like it's free parking for now at least."

"Oh, well if you wanted to take the T it's pretty easy, and I have a spare CharlieCard for guests. Then you wouldn't have to move your car. It's also more reliable than traffic." Spoken like a local. How many nights did I decline plans that would require driving, simply because I had a great parking spot?

"That's fantastic. I'll do that."

To the office, off the living room, for the MBTA pass and a spare map. I advised as I walked back, "It's pretty intuitive; the Orange Line stop is just a couple blocks up, and your destination will be Harvard Square itself—"

I stopped dead. He had taken off the white t-shirt and was starting on the jeans. My mouth fell open as I stared at an unexpectedly smooth, boyish torso. The whole picture had been perfectly balanced before with clothing, but this was bordering on unfair. Pink nipples that matched his lips sat atop barely-defined pectorals. He didn't have "abs" as such, but the slightest valley that ran between his pecs continued down to his navel, which was mildly oval and topped the smallest trail of amber hair, which continued down to where his hands had parted the upper half of a button-fly. Sheer red fabric showed under that, likely boxer briefs, I thought.

As I leered at Antinous, he perhaps self-consciously crossed his right arm over his chest, grabbing his left shoulder. I turned around quickly, feeling I'd intruded. "I'm sorry, I-"

"No, I'm sorry! It's just...I'm nervous, and want to get there as soon as I can," he said.

I turned back to see him starting to blush a little. My face felt hot. "Ok. I'm gonna give you the space to do that, and get to work. Is there anything else you might need?"

"Nope. Gonna shower and get going." He lifted his arms and pushed his hair back with both his hands. His torso gracefully elongated taut and I saw the barest wisps of more amber hair under his arms. He flashed the crooked smile.

Perfectly balanced, to bordering on unfair, to downright cruel. It was bad enough I had imagined all this for years, but to see it in person was making me nervous — agitated even. I swallowed hard and distracted myself by returning to the kitchen, pouring out the rest of my "coffee," and announcing I was leaving. Coming back out of the kitchen, picking up my bag by the door, out of the corner of my eye I saw him wearing only a towel low about his waist, walking slowly to the shower.

Fuck. No. Do not look. Aren't you already bothered enough? And God forbid he's looking over his shoulder at you, you're liable to just run him down!