Leslie’s lawyer sat quietly across the conference room table, flipping through a Vanity Fair as Leslie glanced over his shoulder. “I like that ad,” quipped Leslie, pointing to a photo of shirtless male models gathered around a drinking fountain.

“Of course you do,” I said, looking over the final changes in our contract when suddenly I saw what my new business was to be called. I couldn’t hold back from my contract and exasperated, “THE GAY AND LESBIAN SPORT CENTER?”

“Isssn’t that a fabulousss name? Ssso direct and ssso sssimple.”

A rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins upon the realization of what my business card was going to say: Eric Lewis, CEO, The Gay and Lesbian Sport Center.

“You don’t have a problem with it, do you?” Asked Leslie.

“Well, it’s a little…direct.”

“And why ssshouldn’t it be?”

Seeing Leslie’s gay pride button on his lapel for the approaching weekend, I knew now was not the time to hide in the security of a closet. I wanted this deal to go through, but I hadn’t planned on Leslie’s venture being so…well…gay. “It should be direct, but don’t you think it could maybe be something sexier, like…Stonewall Sport Center.”

“Ssstonewall isss gay hissstory, but I want ALL people to know EXACTLY what we’re about as sssoon as they hear our name. The truth is sexy.”

This guy didn’t just want to be out, he wanted go way out with a Times Square neon billboard. And if I wanted to be the big guy of this brand new million-dollar facility, I would have to be just as brash.

“You’re right,” I mumbled, signing my name on the last sheet of paper.

Before I could put the pen down a POP was heard as Leslie finished opening a bottle of champagne from the nearby mini-fridge. His assistant came into the room, passing around glasses as we poured and toasted.

“To a new era in health care,” stated Leslie, his face filled with pride, raising his glass to mine, but all I could wonder was if the sign on the building would be in pink and lavender neon, or worse, some obnoxious rainbow flag logo. I toasted and swallowed my entire glass in one gulp. My head suddenly got warm from the bubbles and I knew I had to get out of the room as quickly as possible.

“Where’s your bathroom?” I asked the manicured lawyer.

“Out the office, make a left, and it’s on your right.”

I didn’t hear him really, I just needed an excuse to gather myself away from these two men. Quickly I found myself walking through the building corridor, passing other office doors as I looked for the men’s room when I saw a sign that read STAIRWELL.

I paused, realizing that was exactly where I needed to be. I opened the steel door and stepped inside the vertical cavern of 15 floors, hearing the low hum of the building. I paced quietly, calming myself, when I did what I always did when I stepped into a stairwell: looked through the middle of it to see the perspective of height. It always reminded me of my childhood, giving an inspiring sense of wonder that someone had actually built this from nothing and yet NO ONE was inside it but me.

How many stairwells would the Gay and Lesbian Sport Clinic have? I wasn’t sure, but I was definitely hopeful they would be just as industrial and not painted pink.