Men Who Love Men Read Online Free PDF

under the refrigerator, I sobbed for two days.

    I should have known I’d end up back here.

    It’s where I always end up.

    Back with Jeff and Lloyd.

    When I lived in Boston, some of the guys in the clubs would call me “Henry O’Brien,” because they didn’t know my real last name and because, after all, I was just an appendage to the popular Jeff O’Brien, traipsing along behind him on the dance floor, always to be spotted somewhere hovering in his backlight. Here in Provincetown, some of the townies even today know me only as “Henry, Lloyd’s manager,” because, after all, that’s who I am here, the manager of Lloyd Griffith’s popular guesthouse.

    Without Joey, Henry Weiner exists only in reference to Jeff or Lloyd.

    The siren song of the Chunky Monkey in the freezer finally wins out. Without even thinking about it, I’m lured over to the refrigerator, and it’s with the first spoonful into my mouth that Jeff catches me. He barges into my apartment without knocking.

    “What are you, Kramer ?” I ask, annoyed. “What if I was in here with a trick?”

    “From the looks of it, your only tricks tonight are named Ben and Jerry.” Jeff’s all smiles, as if he has good news. “I thought you were trying to lose weight.”

    I toss the ice cream into the sink. It was getting crystallized anyway. “For your information, bucko,” I tell Jeff, still a little pissed, “I already tricked today. A very hot boy I met at Tea Dance. Ask your sister. She saw him.”

    “Yeah, yeah, she told me. Good for you. But come downstairs, okay? Lloyd and I have been waiting for you to get back. We have something to tell you.”

    I look over at him. What is it about Jeff O’Brien? He’s forty now, maybe even forty-one—he’s always been cagey about his age—but people still sometimes think he’s younger than I am. That’s because, unlike mine, Jeff’s hair hasn’t started to recede. Nor does any fleshy excess mar Jeff’s middle. He maintains the same strict gym routine we both kept during our days on the circuit. Of course, Jeff has always known a few shortcuts to looking good. He buys his T-shirts one size too small and has his jeans taken up in the seat to make his butt look more perky. And I suspect an occasional injection of Botox from Ann Marie’s dermatologist boss might explain why Jeff’s forehead is still as smooth as a nineteen-year-old’s. He argues that he keeps up appearances simply because a hot author pic sells books. Who am I to question success? Certainly I’m no expert at it.

    I think again about Luke, and the copy of Jeff’s book under his bed. I decide against telling him.

    “What’s the big news?” I ask.

    Jeff winks at me. “We’ll tell you when you come down.”

    He’s back out the door. I can hear his steps on the staircase, fast and happy. He’s probably signed another book contract. Good for him. The bounty never ends for Jeff O’Brien.

    I turn to the sink to rinse the ice cream down the drain when my cell phone rings. The caller ID shows a wireless number with an area code I don’t recognize. Normally I just let calls I don’t recognize go to voice-mail—but for some reason I answer this one.

    “Henry?” comes the voice at the other end.

    “Yeah.”

    “Hey, it’s Luke.”

    “No way,” I say, smiling despite myself, my words ahead of my brain. “I was just thinking of—”

    Bad. Very bad. Never admit right off that you were thinking of somebody. I learned that much from Jeff. Play aloof. Make them do the work.

    Luke seems pleased. “Of me? Really? You were thinking of me?”

    “Well,” I explain, “of my shirt. I left my shirt in your room.”

    He laughs. “Isn’t the fact that you’re wearing mine an even exchange?”

    “It’s not really a big deal—”

    “We can make the switch tomorrow.” I can hear Luke blowing smoke from his cigarette. “I was thinking maybe we could hang out.”

    So you can meet Jeff. “Well,” I say,