Whatever happened to the idea of meeting someone, falling in love, and having some romance that fulfilled you and satisfied you? Was it all a big joke played on us by our parents and the generation before? “You’ll meet someone and you’ll love each other.” I heard it at the dinner table, on the TV, in sex ed class, and read it in books.

And now I think it’s all a bunch of bullshit. Yet somehow I see others find that special person, know it’s the special person, and keep that special person. I just don’t know if I can trust that’s going to happen for me. Screw it, forget it, I thought. I’m over it. Maybe I’ll just go out with Harvey and settle. This is what I thought I believed I should do.

Instead, I headed up to the Getty and wandered around perhaps to catch a glimpse of Paul and possibly a word or two. I walked by the ornate clocks and remembered Paul on his knees in front of me and passed the Louis the XIV love-seat and imagined the night I lay on top of him. I didn’t know Paul and yet I did. He knew how to touch me, how to look at me, and how to whisper to me. That is what fulfilled me and exactly what I wanted.

Later that day at home, I dialed Paul’s number. A Mexican woman answered who knew no English and before long my friend Anita was on the phone telling me of her teenage exploits. “Roberto is not my boyfriend. Sometimes I wishes he was and sometimes I’m glad he’s not.”

“Glad he’s not?” I asked with genuine concern.

“Oh, he’s too bossy. No matter what I do, he criticizes me. Like when I gel my hair back he says it looks too gang-girlie, but when I let it go dry, he says I’m trying too hard to be a white girl.”

“Sounds like he’s hard to please.”

“Yeah, but he loves me.”

“You love him?”

“Course I do, why wouldn’t I? He’s definitely the babe of the block. All the girls want him.”

“Just as long as you’re sure you do.”

“You’re a good guy Greg. Don’t know why Paul don’t call you back. I tried to talk to him about you. He was interested, but he seemed bugged out about something.”

“Think cause I’m a white boy?”

“Maybe, but you know he moved out. Got his own place. My mama been crying all week. She was expecting him to marry some neighborhood chick and have her move in as well and then of course start having kids.”

“Guess she’s in for a surprise.”

“Oh, she’ll never know. Even if we told her, she’d just go on waiting for a daughter-in-law and grand kids. It’s okay, we love her anyway.”

“Lot’s of love in that house.”

“Oh yeah. Hey listen, you want Paul’s new address?”

“You mind?”

“No, I like you. I don’t know why. I don’t even know you but I do. Hey you never know, maybe mama will get a daughter-in-law...named Greg.”

We both laughed at the notion and she gave me Paul’s address. Now I wanted to get together with Paul if only for the reason of getting to meet Anita.

That night I borrowed Fran’s car and parked outside Paul’s Hollywood apartment. He was getting closer and closer to West Hollywood, but not quite there yet. Once I got up the courage, I headed for his door.

It was a ranch style building in a horse shoe and his place was in the right corner. I passed his shaded curtain and heard music.

I stood outside his door and listened and I hate to admit it, but I peered in the side paned window that framed his door. Through the sheer curtain I watched as Paul stood over a man, a naked man, that lied on what seemed to be one of those massage tables. Paul was completely naked. I went back to Fran’s car and waited. The man left an hour later and I drove home hoping the man in Paul’s apartment couldn’t have that much of a hold if he didn’t stay the night. Something I definitely ached for, to fall asleep in Paul’s arms.