Donna and Greg arrived early, and I have to admit, they looked like a nice happy heterosexual couple. I was glad they accepted my dinner invitation-- joining my other guests JD and his wife for what I hoped would be a memorable dinner.
"How was your honeymoon?" I asked, pouring a '91 Chardonnay into a glass and handing it to thankful Donna.
"Beautiful." said Greg, smiling-- and in an instant I knew he was lying. Here was the man who used to work at a gay sex club, who used to take nude pictures of men, and who used to have coffee with me and dish the men of West Hollywood.
And here he was sipping wine-- married to a nice but obviously stupid woman (Hello!? You're husband's gay, honey!) and pretending to be a shining example of what those morons call "a choice." Yeah, sure. Like we'd choose a life of hate and discrimination because hey, we like a challenge? We have no choice-- it is who we are. It is in the very bottom of our soul, our being-- to love and to be with our own sex. Yet here's this foolish man perpetuating a ridiculous stereotype. However, by the way they both guzzled their wine (c'mon, you don't guzzle a '91 Chardonnay), it was obvious the bomb fuse of their relationship had already been lit and secretly, somewhere deep inside me, I hoped it would explode tonight.
The doorbell rang and I opened the door, finding JD-- looking absolutely stunning-- standing with his wife Sophia, an Asian beauty dressed in an impeccable Oldman dress. I introduced everyone to everyone, watching Greg as he shook hands with JD.
His eyes widened and his smile relaxed. Poor Donna, that fuse was burning quick.
As we moved to the patio to sit beneath the heat lamps on a beautiful California evening, JD took me aside, handing me a small wrapped gift, fitting it in the palm of my hand.
"I know what happened the other day was a mistake." (Mistake? I tried to kiss you and you told me you were straight!), and I know you're in a difficult place with Eric gone, so I wanted you to have this. I'm your friend-- and always will be."
I didn't have the courage to open it in front of him. I simply put it in my pocket and said thank you. He looked relieved, patting me on the shoulder and moving outside.
I passed garlic sautéed artichoke hearts and shrimp stuffed mushroom appetizers, watching my appreciative friends talk about honeymoons, bad waiters, and that cult in San Diego having their Last Supper in a restaurant and the significance of everyone ordering pot pies.
JD's gift burned in my pocket and I sat there, listening to the conversation, pondering what it was. It had to be small, something that meant friendship. I fantasized a ring, I was scared it was a crystal, and I hoped for something silver. After all, he was a man that wore jewelry.
As I went into the kitchen to prep the main course, I could take it no longer and ripped open the tissue paper enclouding my prize.
The small bronzed statue, an antique, showed two military men standing next to each other, one man with his arm around the other's shoulder, helping his friend walk with his arm in a sling. It looked like it was from the 40's-- World War Two.
It was simple, beautiful, and suddenly I found myself becoming emotional. It meant a lot. I saw me taking care of Eric, JD taking care of me-- all of us taking care of each other.
I pulled the ginger soy chicken out of the oven-- browned and crispy-- and I realized how lucky I was to have all of this love in my life. Whether JD was gay or not didn't matter.
But if this male statuette represented us, who was taking care of whom?
