The younger men got kind of quiet.

Instead, Peter spoke. "I'm not a homophobe—I did happen to be in a situation with my best friend once and another woman. They were sleeping in a queen-sized bed in the same room. And I remember the vibes of sex. And when it was over, his hand was burned. Even though he was my best friend, I saw that he was an extra man on the scene, and it was such a bad vibe. I just remember pushing his burned hand away. It was such a bad vibe."

We all sat back for a moment. It was getting late. Almost time to go for dinner.

"Aw, I don't know," Garrick said. "I'm convinced threesomes are good for your psyche emotionally. It's such an atypical sexual experience, it's almost like it doesn't count. As soon as it's over, you don't think about it. If you cheat on your wife or girlfriend, you usually feel guilt afterwards. With this, there's no way you're going to have an ongoing relationship, so it's no threat.

"Besides," Garrick continued, "it brings you closer to the guy. Cements the relationship. What else can you do that even comes close? You're sharing the most intimate experience." And what about afterward? The next morning? "Oh, no problem. I remember, once, we all went to breakfast," Garrick said. "I remember it, because I paid."

9. What Has Two Wheels, Wears Seersucker, and Makes a Sucker of Me? A Bicycle Boy

A few weeks back, I had an encounter with a Bicycle Boy. It happened at a book party that was held in a great marble hall on a tree-lined street. While I was surreptitiously stuffing my face with smoked salmon, a writer friend, a guy, rushed up and said, "I've just been talking to the most interesting man."

"Oh yeah? Where?" I asked, glancing around the room with

suspicion.

"He used to be an archaeologist, and now he writes science books. . fascinating."

"Say no more," I said. I had already spotted the man in question—he was dressed in what I imagined was the city version of a safari suit: khaki trousers, a cream-checked shirt, and a shghtly shabby tweed jacket. His gray-blond hair was raked back from his forehead, exposing a handsome chipped profile. So I was motoring, as much as you can motor in strappy high-heeled sandals, across the room. He was in deep conversation with a middle-aged man, but I quickly took care of the situation. "You," I said. "Someone just told me you were fascinating. I hope you won't disappoint me." I bore

him off to an open window, where I plied him with cigarettes and cheap red wine. After twenty minutes, I left him to go meet some friends for dinner.

The next morning, he called me while I was still in bed with a hangover. Let's call him Horace Eccles. He talked about romance. It was nice to lie in bed with my head throbbing and a handsome man cooing into my ear. We arranged to meet for dinner.

The trouble began almost immediately. First he called to say he was going to be an hour early. Then he called back to say he wasn't. Then he called to say he was going to be half an hour late. Then he called and said he was just around the corner. Then he really was forty-five minutes late.

And then he turned up on his bicycle.

I didn't realize this at first. All I noticed was a more than normal dishevelment (for a writer) and a slight breathiness, which I attributed to the fact that he was in my presence. "Where do you want to have dinner?" he asked.

"I've already arranged it," I said. "Elaine's."

His face twisted. "But I thought we'd just have dinner at some neighborhood place around the corner."

I gave him one of my looks and said, "I don't have dinner at neighborhood places around the corner." For a moment, it looked like it was going to be a standoff. Finally, he blurted out, "But I came on my bicycle, you see."

I turned around and stared at the offending piece of machinery, which was tethered to a lamppost.

"I don't think so," I said.

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 1004