.”
“Only so he could meet you.” I cut him off before he objects. “Oh, come on. Carrying around all your books? The whole ‘I want to be a writer’ thing. He’s totally obsessed with you. It’s obvious.”
Jeff shrugs. “Better lock my underwear drawer.”
“You should take this seriously, Jeff. I’ll be honest. I don’t trust him. Even when I first met him, he seemed to be a schemer. That brain of his is always plotting his next move. I’m keeping my eye on him.”
“Henry?”
I spin around. And there’s Luke, standing right behind me. How much has he heard?
“Should I start cleaning the rooms?” he asks. He apparently heard nothing, or he’s playing innocent. “I’d like to get started so that I can spend the afternoon writing.” He casts a look over at his idol. “I know you write best in the morning, Jeff, and so do I—but I guess from here on, I’ve got to make do with the time I have.”
Jeff smiles.
“It’s like you said when you were being interviewed on This Way Out ,” Luke continues. “You said, ‘If one is serious about writing, every excuse to avoid it will fail. You’ll find time to write on your lunch hour, or during the time you usually spent watching television. Or you’ll get up at four in the morning. If you’re serious, you’ll always find the time.’”
Jeff’s smile fades, just a little. “I think those may have been my exact words.”
“I live by them,” Luke tells him. “Hey, there’s that cat again.”
I clap my hands to scare it away. “Damn thing. Cats are so sneaky.”
Jeff looks at me coldly. “You know, you really need to work on your catphobia.”
“I love cats,” Luke chirps. “You have one, right, Jeff? Mr. Tompkins? You talked about him in an interview in Bay Windows .”
Jeff looks a little uneasy that Luke knows all this information about him. “Yes, I have a cat. He’s been with Lloyd and me for a long time.”
“I love cats,” Luke repeats. “You know, it’s hard in gay culture to come out as a cat-lover.”
“Yes,” Jeff agrees cautiously. “that’s what I said in the interview…”
“It’s like it’s just not cool for a gay man to be into cats—the way lesbians are, anyway, or the way most gay guys are into their dogs.”
Jeff is starting to smile. “Well, you know the faggot-canine connection is a long and honorable one. You see it on every street in every gay ghetto.”
“I know!” Luke says. “You have to have a dog so you can strike up a conversation!”
“Well,” Jeff says, “it’s easier to chat up a hunky blonde walking down Commercial Street if he’s got a golden retriever with him. ‘Hey, nice dog,’ you say, when what you really mean is ‘Hey, nice abs.’”
“I know!” Luke says. “But when you ask gay men if they like cats , they invariably look at you a little funny, as if you’d just asked them if they liked drinks with little parasols in them or the music of Holly Near.”
Jeff laughs. Damn. The kid is winning him over again.
“Cats are considered girly,” Luke continues. “Dogs are manly—except poodles, but they don’t count.”
“Yeah, if you have a poodle, you’re an old queen,” Jeff says.
“I know a very hot guy in town who has a poodle,” I say petulantly.
“You know,” Luke says, ignoring me, “maybe that’s why so many gay men claim to be allergic to cats.”
“Have you noticed that, too?” Jeff asks. “There’s got to be a correlation. None of my straight friends—or my lesbian friends—are allergic to cats. But gay men start sniveling as soon as you tell them there’s a cat in the house. When one trick I brought home suggested I put my cat outside for the, um, duration , I tossed him out instead.”
“And do you know what’s so cool about cats?” Luke asks. “They could care less about what you do with some guy. Cats want no part of it. If cats could roll their eyes in disinterest at two guys in bed,
“Only so he could meet you.” I cut him off before he objects. “Oh, come on. Carrying around all your books? The whole ‘I want to be a writer’ thing. He’s totally obsessed with you. It’s obvious.”
Jeff shrugs. “Better lock my underwear drawer.”
“You should take this seriously, Jeff. I’ll be honest. I don’t trust him. Even when I first met him, he seemed to be a schemer. That brain of his is always plotting his next move. I’m keeping my eye on him.”
“Henry?”
I spin around. And there’s Luke, standing right behind me. How much has he heard?
“Should I start cleaning the rooms?” he asks. He apparently heard nothing, or he’s playing innocent. “I’d like to get started so that I can spend the afternoon writing.” He casts a look over at his idol. “I know you write best in the morning, Jeff, and so do I—but I guess from here on, I’ve got to make do with the time I have.”
Jeff smiles.
“It’s like you said when you were being interviewed on This Way Out ,” Luke continues. “You said, ‘If one is serious about writing, every excuse to avoid it will fail. You’ll find time to write on your lunch hour, or during the time you usually spent watching television. Or you’ll get up at four in the morning. If you’re serious, you’ll always find the time.’”
Jeff’s smile fades, just a little. “I think those may have been my exact words.”
“I live by them,” Luke tells him. “Hey, there’s that cat again.”
I clap my hands to scare it away. “Damn thing. Cats are so sneaky.”
Jeff looks at me coldly. “You know, you really need to work on your catphobia.”
“I love cats,” Luke chirps. “You have one, right, Jeff? Mr. Tompkins? You talked about him in an interview in Bay Windows .”
Jeff looks a little uneasy that Luke knows all this information about him. “Yes, I have a cat. He’s been with Lloyd and me for a long time.”
“I love cats,” Luke repeats. “You know, it’s hard in gay culture to come out as a cat-lover.”
“Yes,” Jeff agrees cautiously. “that’s what I said in the interview…”
“It’s like it’s just not cool for a gay man to be into cats—the way lesbians are, anyway, or the way most gay guys are into their dogs.”
Jeff is starting to smile. “Well, you know the faggot-canine connection is a long and honorable one. You see it on every street in every gay ghetto.”
“I know!” Luke says. “You have to have a dog so you can strike up a conversation!”
“Well,” Jeff says, “it’s easier to chat up a hunky blonde walking down Commercial Street if he’s got a golden retriever with him. ‘Hey, nice dog,’ you say, when what you really mean is ‘Hey, nice abs.’”
“I know!” Luke says. “But when you ask gay men if they like cats , they invariably look at you a little funny, as if you’d just asked them if they liked drinks with little parasols in them or the music of Holly Near.”
Jeff laughs. Damn. The kid is winning him over again.
“Cats are considered girly,” Luke continues. “Dogs are manly—except poodles, but they don’t count.”
“Yeah, if you have a poodle, you’re an old queen,” Jeff says.
“I know a very hot guy in town who has a poodle,” I say petulantly.
“You know,” Luke says, ignoring me, “maybe that’s why so many gay men claim to be allergic to cats.”
“Have you noticed that, too?” Jeff asks. “There’s got to be a correlation. None of my straight friends—or my lesbian friends—are allergic to cats. But gay men start sniveling as soon as you tell them there’s a cat in the house. When one trick I brought home suggested I put my cat outside for the, um, duration , I tossed him out instead.”
“And do you know what’s so cool about cats?” Luke asks. “They could care less about what you do with some guy. Cats want no part of it. If cats could roll their eyes in disinterest at two guys in bed,
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