him, and she would sleep most of the day in his office or in one of the chairs in the writer’s room. He missed having a dog, but Michael knew he should wait until he returned home before considering adopting another pet. There were days he would not leave the apartment except to go to the gym or pick up dinner from the Chinese take-out on Mount Pleasant Street.
He wanted to go home.
As he was getting ready to go to Sharon’s for a New Year’s Eve Party, he decided to check his e-mail, yet there was nothing of any significance, except an e-mail from GayDC Weekly Magazine asking him to vote for the “Hottie of the Year.” Michael opened the e-mail and clicked on the link and looked at the profiles of the five finalists, and not surprisingly, Steve Smith was one of them. Michael looked at all five guy’s profiles and interviews, and Steve’s was the most confusing. He said he was “desperately lonely” and hoping to find a love interest and balance that with his need to be alone. Michael wondered what the hell that meant. Did he and the boyfriend break up? How does one become desperately lonely yet want to be alone?
“Oy, am I glad I ended that situation, whatever the hell it was,” Michael said out loud.
Steve’s pictures were perfect, and Michael had to admit Steve was the most photogenic person he knew outside of Tinsel Town, and one of the sexiest men he had ever met. But, Michael also wondered how someone posing in a jock strap or leather chaps and nothing else could work for a government agency, albeit as a contractor or a consultant, and still have a security clearance. Didn’t they know everything about everyone? Maybe Michael was right, and that was not his real name. But still, Michael was aware that the government even knew when one took his last crap!
Michael decided to vote for Steve. Then he did something he knew he would regret. He e-mailed Steve to tell him he voted for him and wished him a Happy New Year. Michael then shut down the computer, determined not to sit there waiting for a response.
“No more of that behavior for me,” Michael said to himself.
Michael called for a cab, which arrived in fifteen minutes and took him to Sharon’s party. He was never much for New Year’s Eve, as he was never much of a drinker, usually stopping after one. He was quiet to the point of being almost anti-social for most of the evening, and he was not in the greatest of moods. He attributed it to being a little homesick and nervous about going back to California for the premiere of Birthright in a few days. Michael did engage in small talk with a few people, but he really wasn’t himself, so he would use the excuse of helping Sharon and duck into her kitchen to help with the food, leading most of the guests to think he was a snob, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
After midnight, just about everyone left, and Michael stayed to help Sharon clean up. She was picking up cups and putting them in a trash bag, while Michael put all the leftover food into containers and into the refrigerator. Her boyfriend, Wes, who also didn’t drink, acted as designated driver and drove a few of the guests home, so Michael and Sharon were the only ones in the condo once the party was over.
Sharon walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter looking at Michael. “OK, Michael, what’s wrong?” she asked with her arms crossed over her ample bosom.
“Why would anything be wrong?” Michael asked as he continued the task of putting away the leftovers.
“You haven’t said a word all night. You pretty much nodded at people and then would retreat into the kitchen and make like you were helping me,” she said. “You’re usually the life of the party. Everyone gravitates around you while you tell jokes and stories about your mother and her friends or some weird situation you’ve managed to fall into.”
Michael glanced at her for a second, then placed the last container in the refrigerator, poured
He wanted to go home.
As he was getting ready to go to Sharon’s for a New Year’s Eve Party, he decided to check his e-mail, yet there was nothing of any significance, except an e-mail from GayDC Weekly Magazine asking him to vote for the “Hottie of the Year.” Michael opened the e-mail and clicked on the link and looked at the profiles of the five finalists, and not surprisingly, Steve Smith was one of them. Michael looked at all five guy’s profiles and interviews, and Steve’s was the most confusing. He said he was “desperately lonely” and hoping to find a love interest and balance that with his need to be alone. Michael wondered what the hell that meant. Did he and the boyfriend break up? How does one become desperately lonely yet want to be alone?
“Oy, am I glad I ended that situation, whatever the hell it was,” Michael said out loud.
Steve’s pictures were perfect, and Michael had to admit Steve was the most photogenic person he knew outside of Tinsel Town, and one of the sexiest men he had ever met. But, Michael also wondered how someone posing in a jock strap or leather chaps and nothing else could work for a government agency, albeit as a contractor or a consultant, and still have a security clearance. Didn’t they know everything about everyone? Maybe Michael was right, and that was not his real name. But still, Michael was aware that the government even knew when one took his last crap!
Michael decided to vote for Steve. Then he did something he knew he would regret. He e-mailed Steve to tell him he voted for him and wished him a Happy New Year. Michael then shut down the computer, determined not to sit there waiting for a response.
“No more of that behavior for me,” Michael said to himself.
Michael called for a cab, which arrived in fifteen minutes and took him to Sharon’s party. He was never much for New Year’s Eve, as he was never much of a drinker, usually stopping after one. He was quiet to the point of being almost anti-social for most of the evening, and he was not in the greatest of moods. He attributed it to being a little homesick and nervous about going back to California for the premiere of Birthright in a few days. Michael did engage in small talk with a few people, but he really wasn’t himself, so he would use the excuse of helping Sharon and duck into her kitchen to help with the food, leading most of the guests to think he was a snob, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
After midnight, just about everyone left, and Michael stayed to help Sharon clean up. She was picking up cups and putting them in a trash bag, while Michael put all the leftover food into containers and into the refrigerator. Her boyfriend, Wes, who also didn’t drink, acted as designated driver and drove a few of the guests home, so Michael and Sharon were the only ones in the condo once the party was over.
Sharon walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter looking at Michael. “OK, Michael, what’s wrong?” she asked with her arms crossed over her ample bosom.
“Why would anything be wrong?” Michael asked as he continued the task of putting away the leftovers.
“You haven’t said a word all night. You pretty much nodded at people and then would retreat into the kitchen and make like you were helping me,” she said. “You’re usually the life of the party. Everyone gravitates around you while you tell jokes and stories about your mother and her friends or some weird situation you’ve managed to fall into.”
Michael glanced at her for a second, then placed the last container in the refrigerator, poured
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